The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About
the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas
for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.

All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.

Page 1

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Frontispiece.—­“The village
gossips wondered
who
he was, what
he
was, what he came for,
and
how long he intended
to
stay.”

It was a marvellous rig that he wore when he reappeared

The barge led the procession to Mason’s Corner

And then he landed a blow on Wood’s nose

“The Deacon and his wife led off”

CHARACTERS AND SCENES FROM THE STAGE PRESENTATION OF QUINCY ADAMS
SAWYER.

Mandy Skinner

Samanthy Green

Mrs. Putnam’s anger, upon discovery of Lindy’s
parentage (Act III.)

Quincy reading Alice’s letter to her (Act III.)

An old-fashioned husking bee (Act III.)

Alice recovers her sight (Act IV.)

QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER.

CHAPTER I.

The rehearsal.

It was a little after seven o’clock on the evening
of December 31, 186—. Inside, the little
red schoolhouse was ablaze with light. Sounds
of voices and laughter came from within and forms could
be seen flitting back and forth through the uncurtained
windows. Outside, a heavy fall of snow lay upon
hill and vale, trees and house-tops, while the rays
of a full-orbed moon shone down upon the glistening,
white expanse.

At a point upon the main road a short distance beyond
the square, where the grocery store was situated,
stood a young man. This young man was Ezekiel
Pettengill, one of the well-to-do young farmers of
the village. His coat collar was turned up and
his cap pulled down over his ears, for the air was
piercing cold and a biting wind was blowing. Now
and then he would walk briskly back and forth for
a few minutes, clapping his hands, which were encased
in gray woollen mittens, in order to restore some
warmth to those almost frozen members. As he walked
back and forth, he said several times, half aloud
to himself, “I don’t b’lieve she’s
comin’ anyway. I s’pose she’s
goin’ to stay ter hum and spend the evenin’
with him.” Finally he resumed his old position
near the corner and assumed his previous expectant
attitude.

As he looked down the road, a man came out of Mrs.
Hawkins’s boarding house, crossed the road and
walked swiftly towards him.

As the new-comer neared him, he called out, “Hello,
Pettengill! is that you? Confounded cold, ain’t
it? Who wuz yer waitin’ for? Been up
to the schoolhouse yet?”

To these inquiries ‘Zekiel responded: “No!”
and added, “I saw yer comin’ out of the
house and thought I’d walk up with yer.”

Page 2

“Wall! they can’t do nuthin’ till
I git thar,” said Mr. Obadiah Strout, the singing-master,
“so we shall both be on time. By the way,”
he continued, “I was up to Boston to-day to
git some things I wanted for the concert to-morrer
night, and the minister asked me to buy some new music
books for the church choir, and I’m goin’
up there fust to take ’em;” and ’Zekiel’s
attention was attracted to a package that Mr. Strout
held under his arm. “Say, Pettengill!”
continued Mr. Strout, “when yet git up ter the
schoolhouse, tell them I’ll be along in a few
minutes;” and he started off, apparently forgetful
of ’Zekiel’s declaration that he had intended
to walk up with him.

It is evident that ’Zekiel’s statement
was untruthful, for his words have betrayed the fact
that it was not the Professor of whom he had been
thinking.

’Zekiel did not move from his position until
he had seen Strout turn into the yard that led to
the front door of the minister’s house.
Then he said to himself again, “I don’t
believe she’s comin’, arter all.”

As he spoke the words a deep, heavy sigh came from
his great, honest heart, heard only by the leaflless
trees through which the winter wind moaned as if in
sympathy.

What was going on in the little red schoolhouse?
The occasion was the last rehearsal of the Eastborough
Singing Society, which had been studying vocal music
assiduously for the last three months under the direction
of Professor Obadiah Strout, and was to give its annual
conceit the following evening at the Town Hall at Eastborough.

A modest sum had been raised by subscription.
A big barge had been hired in Cottonton, and after
the rehearsal there was to be a sleigh ride to Eastborough
Centre and return. It was evident from the clamor
and confusion that the minds of those present were
more intent upon the ride than the rehearsal, and
when one girl remarked that the Professor was late,
another quickly replied that, “if he didn’t
come at all ’twould be early enough.”

There were about two score of young persons present,
very nearly equally divided between the two sexes.
Benjamin Bates was there and Robert Wood, Cobb’s
twins, Emmanuel Howe, and Samuel Hill. Among the
girls were Lindy Putnam, the best dressed and richest
girl in town, Mandy Skinner, Tilly James, who had
more beaus than any other girl in the village; the
Green sisters Samanthy and Betsy, and Miss Seraphina
Cotton, the village schoolteacher.

Evidently all the members of the society had not arrived,
for constant inquiries were being made about Huldy
Mason and ’Zekiel Pettengill. When Betsy
Green asked Mandy Skinner if Hiram Maxwell wa’n’t
comin’, the latter replied that he’d probably
come up when Miss Huldy and the new boarder did.

News had reached the assemblage that Arthur Scates,
the best tenor singer in the society, was sick.
Lindy Putnam was to sing a duet with him at the concert,
and so she asked if anybody had been to see him.

Page 3

“I was up there this arternoon,” said
Ben Bates, “and he seemed powerful bad in the
throat. Grandmother Scates tied an old stocking
’round his throat and gin him a bowl of catnip
tea and he kinder thought he’d be all right
to-morrer. I told him you’d have a conniption
fit if he didn’t show up, but Grandmother Scates
shook her head kind o’ doubtful and said, ‘The
Lord’s will be done. What can’t be
cured must be endured;’ and I guess that’s
about the way it will be.”

The outer door opened and ’Zekiel Pettengill
entered. The creaking of the opening door attracted
the attention of all. When the girls saw who
it was, they ran and gathered about him, a dozen voices
crying out, “Where is Huldy? We all thought
she’d come with you.”

She turned away, followed by a number of the girls.
“He knows well enough,” she observed in
an undertone, “but he won’t tell.
He’s gone on Huldy, and when a feller’s
gone on a girl he’s pretty sure to keep the
run of her.”

In the meantime Lindy Putnam had been using her most
persuasive powers of coaxing on ’Zekiel and
with same success, for ’Zekiel told quite a
long story, but with very little information in it.
He told the crowd of girls gathered about him that
he’d be twenty-eight on the third of January,
and that ever since he was a little boy, which was,
of course, before any of those present were born,
he’d always followed the rule of not saying
anything unless he knew what he was talking about.

“Now,” said ’Zekiel, feeling that
it was better to talk on than to stand sheep-facedly
before this crowd of eager, expectant faces, “I
might tell yer that Huldy was ter hum and wasn’t
comin’ up to-night, but yer see, p’r’aps
she’s on the road now and may pop in here any
minute! Course you all know Deacon Mason’s
got a boarder, a young feller from the city.
P’r’aps he’ll come up with Huldy.
But I heerd tell his health wa’n’t very
good and mebbe he went to bed right after supper.”

“What’s he down here for anyway?”
asked Tilly James.

“Now you’ve got me,” replied ’Zekiel.
“I s’pose he had some purpose in view,
but you see I ain’t positive even of that.
As I said before, I heerd he’s come down here
for his health. It’s too late for rakin’
hay, and as hard work’s the best country doctor,
p’r’aps he’ll go to choppin’
wood; but there’s one point I feel kinder positive
on.”

“What is it? What is it?” cried the
girls, as they looked into his face inquiringly.

“Wall, I think,” drawled ’Zekiel,
“that when he gits what he’s come for,
he’ll be mighty apt to pull up stakes and go
back to Boston.”

Again the outer door creaked upon its hinges, and
again every face was turned to see who the new-comer
might be.

“Here she is,” cried a dozen voices; and
the owners thereof rushed forward to greet and embrace
Miss Huldy Mason, the Deacon’s daughter and
the most popular girl in the village.

Page 4

’Zekiel turned and saw that she was alone.
Evidently the city fellow had not come with her.

Huldy was somewhat astonished at the warmth of her
greeting, and was at a loss to understand the reason
for it, until Lindy Putnam said:

“Didn’t he come with you?”

“Who?” asked Huldy, with wide-open eyes.

“Oh, you can’t fool us,” cried Tilly
James. “’Zeke Pettengill told us all about
that city feller that’s boarding down to your
house. We were just talking it over together,
and he surmised that it might be the same one that
you met down to your aunt’s house, when you went
to Boston last summer.”

“As Mr. Pettengill seems to know so much about
my gentlemen friends, if you want any more information,
no doubt he can supply it,” said Huldy coldly.

“’Zeke kinder thought,” said Bob
Wood, “that he might be tired, and probably
went to bed right after supper.”

“Well, he didn’t,” said Huldy, now
thoroughly excited, “he came with me, and he’s
outside now talking with Hiram about the barge.”

“Why don’t he come in?” asked Bob
Wood. “P’r’aps he’s bashful.”

“If he didn’t have no more common sense
than you’ve got,” retorted Huldy, “he’d
have to go to bed as soon as he had eaten his supper.”

The laugh that followed this remark so incensed Wood
that he answered coarsely, “I never saw one
of those city chaps who knew B from a bull’s
foot.”

“Well, I guess not,” said Wood with a
sneer; “’less he can put two b’s
in able.”

Further altercation was stopped by the sudden entrance
of Mr. Strout, who quickly ascended the platform and
called the society to order. It must be acknowledged
that the Professor had a good knowledge of music and
thoroughly understood the very difficult art of directing
a mixed chorus of uncultivated voices. With him
enthusiasm was more important than a strict adherence
to quavers and semiquavers, and what was lost in fine
touches was more than made up in volume of tone.

Again, the Professor paid strict attention to business
at rehearsals, and the progress of the society in
musical knowledge had been very marked. So it
is not to be wondered at that the various numbers allotted
to the chorus on the next evening’s programme
were gone through quickly and to the evident satisfaction
of the leader.

The last number to be taken up was an original composition,
written and composed by the singing-master himself,
and during its rehearsal his enthusiasm reached its
highest pitch. At the conclusion of the chorus,
which had been rendered with remarkable spirit, the
Professor darted from one-end of the platform to the
other, crying out, “Bravo! Fust rate!
Do it again! That’ll fetch ’em!”

After several repetitions of the chorus, each one
given with increasing spirit and volume, the Professor
threw down his baton and said: “That’ll
do. You’re excused until to-morrow night,
seven o’clock sharp at Eastborough Town Hall.
I guess the barge has just drove up and we’d
better be gittin’ ready for our sleigh ride.”

Page 5

Miss Tilly James, who had acted as accompanist on
the tin-panny old piano, was putting up her music.
The Professor, with his face wreathed in smiles, walked
up to her and said, “I tell you what, Miss James,
that last composition of mine is bang up. One
of these days, when the ’Star Spangled Banner,’
‘Hail Columbia,’ and ‘Marching through
Georgia’ are laid upon the top shelf and all
covered with dust, one hundred million American freemen
will be singing Strout’s great national anthem,
’Hark, and hear the Eagle Scream.’
What do you think of that prophecy?”

“I think,” said Miss James, turning her
pretty face towards him, her black eyes snapping with
fun, “that if conceit was consumption, there’d
be another little green grave in the cemetery with
O. Strout on the headstone.”

The Professor never could take a joke. In his
eye, jokes were always insults to be resented accordingly.
Turning upon the young lady savagely, he retorted:

“If sass was butter, your folks wouldn’t
have to keep any cows.”

Then he walked quickly across the room to where ’Zekiel
Pettengill stood aloof from the rest, wrapped in some
apparently not very pleasant thoughts.

At this juncture Hiram Maxwell dashed into the schoolroom,
and judging from appearances his thoughts were of
the pleasantest possible description.

“Say, fellers and girls,” he cried, “I’ve
got some news for yer, and when you hear it you’ll
think the day of judgment has come, and you’re
goin’ to git your reward.”

An astonished “Oh!” came up from the assemblage.

“Out with it,” said Bob Wood, in his coarse,
rough voice.

“Well, fust,” said Hiram, his face glowing
with animation, “you know we got up a subscription
to pay for the barge and made me treasurer, cuz I
worked in a deacon’s family. Wall, when
I asked Bill Stalker to-night how much the bill would
be, just to see if I’d got enough, he told me
that a Mr. Sawyer, who said he ’boarded down
to Deacon Mason’s, had paid the hull bill and
given him a dollar beside for hisself.”
Cheers and the clapping of hands showed that the city
fellow’s liberality was appreciated by a majority,
at least, of the singing society. “When
we git on the barge I’ll pay yer back yer money,
and the ride won’t cost any one on us a durn
cent. That ain’t all. Mr. Sawyer jest
told me hisself that when he was over to Eastborough
Centre yesterday he ordered a hot supper for the whole
caboodle, and it’ll be ready for us when we
git over to the Eagle Hotel. So come along and
git your seats in the barge.” A wild rush
was made for the door, but Hiram backed against it
and screamed at the top of his voice: “No
two girls must sit close together. Fust a girl,
then a feller, next a girl, then a feller, next a
girl, then a feller, that’s the rule.”

He opened the door and dashed out, followed by all
the members of the society excepting the Professor
and ’Zekiel, who were left alone in the room.

Page 6

“See that flock of sheep,” said the Professor
to ’Zekiel, with a strong touch of sarcasm in
his tone. “That’s what makes me so
cussed mad. Brains and glorious achievement count
for nothin’ in this community. If a city
swell comes along with a pocketful of money and just
cries, ‘Baa,’ over the fence they all
go after him.”

“Hasn’t it always been so?” asked
’Zekiel.

“Not a bit of it,” said Strout. “In
the old days, kings and queens and princes used to
search for modest merit, and when found they rewarded
it. Nowadays modest merit has to holler and yell
and screech to make folks look at it.”

Hiram again appeared in the room, beckoning to the
two occupants.

“Say, ain’t you two comin’ along?”
he cried. “We’ve saved good places
for yer.”

“Where’s Mr. Sawyer?” asked ’Zekiel.

“Oh, he’s goin’ along with the crowd,”
said Hiram; “he’s got a seat in between
Miss Putnam and Miss Mason, and looks as snug as a
bug in a rug. There’s a place for you,
Mr. Pettengill, between Miss Mason and Mandy, and
I comes in between Mandy and Mrs. Hawkins. Mandy
wanted her mother to go cuz she works so confounded
hard and gits out of doors so seldom, and there’s
a seat ’tween Mrs. Hawkins and Tilly James for
the Professor, and Sam Hill’s t’other
side of Tilly and nex’ to S’frina Cotton.”

“I guess I can’t go,” said ’Zekiel.
“The house is all alone, and I’m kind
of ’fraid thet thet last hoss I bought may get
into trouble again as he did last night. So I
guess I’d better go home and look arter things.”
Leaning over he whispered in Hiram’s ear, “I
reckon you’d better take the seat between Huldy
and Mandy, you don’t want ter separate a mother
from her daughter, you know.”

“All right,” said Hiram, with a knowing
wink, “I’m satisfied to obleege.”

Hiram then turned to the Professor: “Ain’t
yer goin’, Mr. Strout?”

“When this sleigh ride was projected,”
said the Professor with dignity, “I s’posed
it was to be for the members of the singin’ class
and not for boardin’ mistresses and city loafers.”

“I guess it don’t make much difference
who goes,” replied Hiram, “as long as
we git a free ride and a free supper for nothing.”

“Present my compliments to Mr. Sawyer,”
said the Professor, “and tell him I’ve
had my supper, and as I don’t belong to a fire
company, I don’t care for crackers and cheese
and coffee so late in the evenin’.”

“Oh, bosh!” cried Hiram, “it’s
goin’ to be a turkey supper, with fried chicken
and salery and cranberry juice, and each feller’s
to have a bottle of cider and each girl a bottle of
ginger ale.”

A horn was heard outside, it being the signal for
the starting of the barge. Without stopping to
say good-by, Hiram rushed out of the room, secured
his seat in the barge, and with loud cheers the merry
party started off on their journey.

The Professor extinguished the lights and accompanied
by ’Zekiel left the building. He locked
the door and hung the key in its accustomed place,
for no one at Mason’s Corner ever imagined that
a thief could be so bad as to steal anything from
a schoolhouse. And it was once argued in town
meeting that if a tramp got into it and thus escaped
freezing, that was better than to have the town pay
for burying him.

Page 7

Both men walked along silently until they reached
Mrs. Hawkins’ boarding house; here the Professor
stopped and bade ’Zekiel good night. After
doing so he added:

“Pettengill, you and me must jine agin the common
enemy. This town ain’t big enough to hold
us and this destroyer of our happiness, and we must
find some way of smokin’ him out.”

The slumbers of both ’Zekiel and the Professor
were broken when the jolly party returned home after
midnight. ’Zekiel recalled Hiram’s
description of the arrangement of seats, and another
deep sigh escaped him; but this time there were no
leafless trees and winter wind to supply an echo.

The Professor’s half-awakened mind travelled
in very different channels. He imagined himself
engaged in several verbal disputes with a number of
fisticuff encounters in which he invariably proved
to be too much for the city fellow. Just before
he sank again into a deep sleep he imagined that the
entire population of Mason’s Corner escorted
a certain young man forcibly to the railroad station
at Eastborough Centre and put him in charge of the
expressman, to be delivered in Boston. And that
young man, in the Professor’s dream, had a tag
tied to the lapel of his coat upon which was written,
“Quincy Adams Sawyer.”

CHAPTER II.

MASON’S CORNER FOLKS.

In 186—­ the town of Eastborough was located
in the southeastern part of Massachusetts, in the
county of Normouth. It was a large town, being
fully five miles wide from east to west and from five
to seven miles long, the northern and southern boundaries
being very irregular.

The town contained three villages; the western one
being known as West Eastborough, the middle one as
Eastborough Centre, and the easterly one as Mason’s
Corner. West Eastborough was exclusively a farming
section, having no store or post office. As the
extreme western boundary was only a mile and a half
from Eastborough Centre, the farmers of the western
section of the town were well accommodated at the Centre.
The middle section contained the railroad station,
at which five trains a day, each way, to and from
Boston, made regular stops. The Centre contained
the Town Hall, two churches, a hotel, and express
office, a bank, newspaper office, and several general
stores. Not very far from the hotel, on a side
road, was the Almshouse, or Poorhouse, as it was always
called by the citizens of Eastborough.

Between the Centre and Mason’s Corner was a
long interval of three miles. The land bordering
the lower and most direct route was, to a great extent,
hilly and rocky, or full of sand and clay pits.
The upper and longest road ran through a more fertile
section. The village of Mason’s Corner
contained the best arable land in the town, and the
village had increased in population and wealth much
faster than the other sections of the town. To
the east of the village of Mason’s Corner lay
the town of Montrose, and beyond that town was situated
the thriving city of Cottonton, devoted largely, as
its name indicated, to the textile manufacturing industries.

Page 8

The best known and most popular resident of Mason’s
Corner was Deacon Abraham Mason. He was a retired
farmer on the shady side of fifty. He had married
young and worked very hard, his labors being rewarded
with pecuniary success. When a little over fifty,
he gave up active farm work and devoted his time to
buying and selling real estate, and to church and
town affairs, in both of which he was greatly interested.
His house stood about halfway down a somewhat steep
hill, the road over which, at the top, made a sharp
turn. It was this turn which had received the
appellation of Mason’s Corner and from which
the village eventually had taken its name.

Mrs. Sophia Mason, the Deacon’s wife, was a
little less than fifty years of age. She was
a comely, bright-faced, bright-eyed, and energetic
woman, who had been both a loving wife and a valued
helpmeet to her husband. Their only living child
was a daughter named Huldah Ann, about nineteen years
of age, and considered by many to be the prettiest
and smartest girl in Mason’s Corner. The
only other resident in Deacon Mason’s house
was Hiram Maxwell, a young man about thirty years of
age. He had been a farm hand, but had enlisted
in 1861, and served through the war. On his return
home he was hired by Deacon Mason to do such chores
as required a man’s strength, for the Deacon’s
business took him away from home a great deal.
Hiram was not exactly what would be called a pronounced
stutterer or stammerer; but when he was excited or
had a matter of more than ordinary importance to communicate,
a sort of lingual paralysis seemed to overtake him
and interfered materially with the vocal expression
of his thoughts and ideas. Type would be inadequate
to express the facial contortions and what might be
termed the chromatic scales of vocal expression in
which he often indulged, and they are, therefore,
left for full comprehension to those of inventive
and vivid imaginative powers. This fact should
not be lost sight of in following the fortunes of
this brave soldier, honest lover, good husband, and
successful business man.

The Pettengill homestead was situated on the other
side of the road, southwest from Deacon Mason’s
house. Ezekiel’s grandfather had left three
sons, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the latter being Ezekiel’s
father. Abraham had died when he was a young man,
and Jacob had been dead about five years. Uncle
Ike was in his seventy-sixth year, and was Ezekiel’s
only living near relative, with the exception of his
sister Alice, who had left home soon after her father’s
death and was now employed as bookkeeper in a large
dry goods store in Boston.

Ezekiel was about twenty-eight years of age, being
seven years older than his sister. He was a hardy,
strong-willed, self-reliant young fellow. He
loved farming and had resolved to make a better living
out of it than his father had ever done. A strong
incentive to win success proceeded from the fact that
he had long been in love with “Huldy Ann,”
the Deacon’s daughter, and he had every reason
to believe that his affection was returned, although
no formal engagement existed between them, and marriage
had never been spoken of by them or the young lady’s
parents.

Page 9

Uncle Ike Pettengill had been a successful business
man in Boston, but at the age of sixty had wearied
of city life, and decided to spend the rest of his
days in the country. Despite the objections of
his wife and two grown up daughters, he sold out his
business, conveyed two-thirds of his property to his
wife and children, and invested the remaining third
in an annuity, which gave him sufficient income for
a comfortable support. He did not live at the
Pettengill house, but in a little two-roomed cottage
or cabin that he had had built for him on the lower
road, about halfway between Mason’s Corner and
Eastborough Centre. A short distance beyond his
little house, a crossroad, not very often used, connected
the upper and lower roads. Uncle Ike had a fair-sized
library, read magazines and weekly papers, but never
looked at a daily newspaper. His only companions
were about two hundred hens and chickens and a big
St. Bernard dog which he had named “Swiss,”
after his native land.

The other residents of the Pettengill homestead were
two young men named Jim and Bill Cobb, who aided Ezekiel
in his farm work, and Mandy Skinner, the “help,”
who was in reality the housekeeper of the establishment.
Jim and Bill Cobb were orphans, Jim being about twenty-one
and Bill three years older. When young they resembled
each other very closely, for this reason they had
been nicknamed “Cobb’s Twins,” and
the name had clung to them, even after they had reached
manhood.

Mandy Skinner was about twenty-three, and was the
only child of Malachi and Martha Skinner. Her
father was dead, but her mother had married again
and was now Mrs. Jonas Hawkins, the proprietor of Mrs.
Hawkins’s boarding house, which was situated
in the square opposite Hill’s grocery, and about
a quarter of a mile from the top of Mason’s Hill.
Mandy had a double burden upon her shoulders.
One was the care of such a large house and family,
and the other was the constant necessity of repelling
the lover-like hints and suggestions of Hiram Maxwell,
who was always ready and willing to overlook his work
at Deacon Mason’s so that he could run down
and see if Mandy wanted him to do anything for her.

Hill’s grocery was owned and carried on by Benoni
Hill and his son Samuel. Their residence was
on the easterly edge of the town, being next to the
one occupied by old Ben James, who was a widower with
one daughter, Miss Matilda James.

About a quarter of a mile east of Hill’s grocery
was the village church, presided over by the Rev.
Caleb Howe. He had one son, Emmanuel, who had
graduated at Harvard and had intended to fit for the
ministry, but his health had failed him and he had
temporarily abandoned his studies. He was a great
admirer of Miss Lindy Putnam, because, as he said,
she was so pretty and accomplished. But after
long debate one evening at the grocery store, it had
been decided without a dissenting vote that “the
minister’s son was a lazy ‘good-for-nothing’,

Page 10

and that he wanted the money more than he did the
gal.” The village schoolhouse stood a short
distance eastward from the church. The teacher,
Miss Seraphina Cotton, a maiden lady of uncertain
age, who boasted that the city of Cottonton was named
after her grandfather, boarded at the Rev. Mr. Howe’s,
and was ardently attached to the minister’s
wife, who was an invalid and rarely seen outside of
her home.

On the upper road, about half a mile to the west of
Deacon Mason’s, lived Mr. and Mrs. Silas Putnam.
They owned the largest house and best farm at Mason’s
Corner. They were reputed to be quite wealthy
and it was known for a sure fact that their only daughter,
Lindy, was worth one hundred thousand dollars in her
own right, it having been left to her by her only
brother, J. Jones Putnam, who had died in Boston about
five years before.

Mrs. Hawkins had a large house, but it was always
full of boarders, all of the masculine gender.
Mrs. Hawkins had declared on several occasions that
she’d “sooner have the itch than a girl
boarder.” She was a hard-working woman
and had but one assistant, a young girl named Betsy
Green, one of whose sisters was “working-out”
up at Mrs. Putnam’s. Mrs. Hawkins’s
husband, his wife declared, was “no account nohow,”
and for the present her estimate of him must be accepted
without question.

Among Mrs. Hawkins’s twelve boarders were Robert
Wood and Benjamin Bates, two young men who were natives
of Montrose. Bates was a brick and stone mason,
and Wood was a carpenter, and they had been quite busily
employed during the two years they had lived at Mason’s
Corner.

Mrs. Hawkins owned a buggy and carryall and a couple
of fairly good horses. They were cared for by
Abner Stiles. He was often called upon to carry
passengers over to the railway station at the Centre,
and was the mail carrier between the Centre and Mason’s
Corner, for the latter village had a post office,
which was located in Hill’s grocery, Mr. Benoni
Hill being the postmaster.

Since his return from the war Mr. Obadiah Strout had
been Mrs. Hawkins’s star boarder. He sat
at the head of the table and acted as moderator during
the wordy discussions which accompanied every meal.
Abner Stiles believed implicitly in the manifest superiority
of Obadiah Strout over the other residents of Mason’s
Corner. He was his firm ally and henchman, serving
him as a dog does his master, not for pay, but because
he loves the service.

Mr. Strout was often called the “Professor”
because he was the singing-master of the village and
gave lessons in instrumental and vocal music.
The love of music was another bond of union between
Strout and Stiles, for the latter was a skilful, if
not educated, performer on the violin.

The Professor was about forty years of age, stout
in person, with smooth shaven face and florid complexion.
In Eastborough town matters he was a general factotum.
He had been an undertaker’s assistant and had
worked for the superintendent of the Poorhouse.
In due season and in turn he had been appointed to
and had filled the positions of fence viewer, road
inspector, hog reeve, pound keeper, and the year previous
he had been chosen tax collector. Abner Stiles
said that there “wasn’t a better man in
town for selectman and he knew he’d get there
one of these days.”

Page 11

To those residents of Mason’s Corner whose names
have been given, whose homes have been described and
some whose personal peculiarities have been portrayed,
must be added a late arrival. The new-comer whose
advent in town during Christmas week had caused so
much discussion at the rehearsal in the old red schoolhouse,
and whose liberality in providing a hot supper with
all the fixings for the sleighing party from Mason’s
Corner, when it arrived at the Eagle Hotel at Eastborough
Centre, had won, at a bound, the hearts of the majority
of the younger residents of Mason’s Corner.
The village gossips wondered who he was, what he was,
what he came for, and how long he intended to stay.
If these questions had been asked of him personally,
he might have returned answers to the first three
questions, but it would have been beyond his power
to have answered the fourth inquiry at that time.
But the sayings and doings of certain individuals,
and a chain of circumstances not of his own creation
and beyond his personal control, conspired to keep
him there for a period of nearly four months.
During that time certain things were said and done,
certain people were met and certain events took place
which changed the entire current of this young man’s
future life, which shows plainly that we are all creatures
of circumstance and that a man’s success or
failure in life may often depend as much or even more
upon his environment than upon himself.

CHAPTER III.

Theconcertinthetownhall.

It was the evening of New Year’s day, 186—.
The leading people, in fact nearly all the people
of the three villages forming the town of Eastborough,
were assembled in the Town Hall at Eastborough Centre.
The evening was pleasant and this fact had contributed
to draw together the largest audience ever assembled
in that hall. Not only was every seat taken,
but the aisles were also crowded, while many of the
younger citizens had been lifted up to eligible positions
in the wide window seats of the dozen great windows
on three sides of the large hall.

The large attendance was also due in part to the fact
that a new and original musical composition by Mr.
Strout, the singing-master, would be sung for the
first time in public. Again, it had been whispered
up at Hill’s grocery at Mason’s Corner
that the young city fellow who was boarding at Deacon
Mason’s was going to be present, and this rumor
led to a greatly increased attendance from that village.

The audience was a typical one of such communities
at that period; horny-handed farmers with long shaggy
beards and unkempt hair, dressed in ill-fitting black
suits; matronly looking farmers’ wives in their
Sunday best; rosy-cheeked daughters full of fun and
vivacity and chattering like magpies; tall, lank,
awkward, bashful sons, and red-haired, black-haired,
and tow-headed urchins of both sexes, the latter awaiting
the events of the evening with the wild anticipations
that are usually called forth only by the advent of
a circus.

Page 12

The members of the chorus were seated on the large
platform, the girls being on the right and the fellows
on the left. A loud hum of conversation arose
from the audience and chorus, a constant turning over
and rattling of programmes gave a cheerful and animated
appearance to the scene. The centre door at the
rear of the platform was opened and all eyes were
turned in that direction, the chorus twisting their
necks or turning half ’round in their seats.

Professor Strout entered and was greeted with a loud
burst of applause. He wore a dress suit that
he had hired in Boston, and there was a large white
rose in the lapel of his coat. He was accompanied
by Miss Tilly James, the pianist, who wore a handsome
wine-colored silk dress that had been made for the
occasion by the best dressmaker in Cottonton.
As she took her place at the piano and ran her fingers
over the keys, she, too, came in for a liberal round
of applause. Professor Strout bowed to the audience,
then turning his back upon them, he stood with baton
uplifted facing the chorus and waiting the advent
of the town committee. Every eye in the audience
was fixed upon the programme. It contained the
information that the first number was an opening chorus
entitled, “Welcome to the Town Committee,”
written and composed by Professor Obadiah Strout and
sung for the first time with great success at the
last annual concert.

The door at the rear of the platform was opened again
and Deacon Abraham Mason, the Rev. Caleb Howe, and
Mr. Benoni Hill, the members of the town committee
on singing school, entered. Deacon Mason was accompanied
by Quincy Adams Sawyer, and all eyes were fastened
on the couple as they took their seats at the right
of the platform, the Rev. Mr. Howe and Mr. Hill being
seated on the left.

Quincy Adams Sawyer in appearance and dress was a
marked contrast to the stout, hardy, and rugged young
farmers of Eastborough. He had dark hair, dark
eyes, and a small black mustache curled at the ends.
His face was pallid, but there was a look of determination
in the firmly set jaw, resolute mouth, and sharp eye.
He wore a dark suit with Prince Albert coat.
Upon one arm hung an overcoat of light-colored cloth.
He wore light-brown kid gloves and in one hand carried
a light-colored Kossuth hat.

As soon as the committee and their guest had taken
their seats, Professor Strout tapped upon his music
stand with his baton and the members of the Eastborough
Singing Society arose to their feet with that total
disregard of uniformity and unanimity of motion that
always characterizes a body of undrilled performers.
Each girl was obliged to look at her own dress and
that of her neighbor to see if they were all right,
while each fellow felt it absolutely necessary to shuffle
his feet, pull down his cuffs, pull up his collar,
and arrange his necktie. Despite the confusion
and individual preparations the chorus took the opening
note promptly and sang the “Welcome to the Town

Page 13

Committee” with a spirit and precision which
well merited the applause it received. The words
were not printed on the programme, but they conveyed
the idea that the members of the singing class were
very much obliged to the town committee for hiring
a singing-master and paying his salary. Also that
the members of the chorus had studied hard to learn
to sing and would do their best that evening as a
return for the favors-bestowed upon them by the town.

Professor Strout then advanced to the edge of the
platform and called the attention of the audience
to the second number upon the programme which read,
“Address by Abraham Mason, Esq.” Prof.
Strout added that by special request Deacon Mason’s
remarks would relate to the subject of “Education.”
The Deacon drew a large red bandanna handkerchief from
his pocket, wiped the perspiration from his forehead,
blew his nose vigorously, and then advanced to the
centre of the platform near the music stand.

“I dote on eddikation,” he began; “it
makes the taxes high; I’ve lived in this town
man and boy more’n fifty year and I never saw
them anythin’ but high.” A general
laugh greeted this remark. “But when I’m
in town meetin’ I allus votes an aye to make
our schools as good as those found in neighborin’
towns, and none of them are any too good. For
my political actions I’m proud to give my grounds,
for I never cast a vote that I was ashamed to give
my reasons for.” A burst of applause followed
this declaration.

“Years back when I was young, we had no modern
notions. We had to be satisfied with the three
R’s, Readin’, ‘Ritin’, and
’Rithmetic, and larnin’ was dealt out
in rather meagre potions, ’bout three months
in the winter after the wood was cut, sawed and split,
and piled up in the wood-shed. We allus had to
work in the summer, make hay and fill the barn in,
and not till winter come could get a speck of larnin,’
and then it took most of our time to pile wood into
the stove and settle our personal accounts with the
teacher.” An audible titter ran through
the audience at this sally. “And yet when
I was young, though this community was rather behind
in letters, no people in the land could say they were
our betters. But now the world is changed, we
live without such grubbin’, learn Latin, French,
and Greek, how to walk Spanish, talk Dutch, draw picters,
keep books, fizziology, and lots of other ’ologies
and much piano drubbin’. Now what brought
this about? I think I have a notion; you know
the immergrants from about every country under the
sun have piled across the ocean. They’ve
done the diggin’ and other rough work and we’ve
thruv on their labor. I have some ready cash.
Mr. Strout comes ’round and gets some of’t
every year, and likewise my neighbor has some put
aside for a rainy day.” Many of the audience
who probably had nothing laid aside glanced at the
well-to-do farmers who had the reputation of being
well fixed as regards this world’s goods.
“Perhaps I’m doin’ wrong, but I
would like my darter to know as much as those that’s
likely to come arter. But if the world keeps on
its progress so bewild’rin’ and they put
some more ’ologies into the schools together
with cabinet organs and fife and drum, I’m afraid
it will cost my darter more than it did me to eddikate
her childrin.”

Page 14

A storm of applause filled the hall when the Deacon
concluded his remarks. As he resumed his chair,
Quincy handed him a tumbler of water that he had poured
from a pitcher that stood upon a table near the piano.
This act of courtesy was seen and appreciated by the
audience and a loud clapping of hands followed.
At the commencement of the Deacon’s speech,
the Professor had left the platform, for it gave him
an opportunity for an intended change of costume,
for which time could be found at no other place on
the programme. It was a marvellous rig that he
wore when he reappeared. A pair of white duck
pantaloons, stiffly starched, were strapped under
a pair of substantial, well-greased, cowhide boots.
The waistcoat was of bright-red cloth with brass buttons.
The long-tailed blue broad-cloth coat was also supplied
with big brass buttons. He wore a high linen
dickey and a necktie made of a small silk American
flag. On his head he had a cream-colored, woolly
plug hat and carried in his hand a baton resembling
a small barber’s pole, having alternate stripes
of red, white, and blue with gilded ends.

[Illustration: Itwas A marvellousrigthatheworewhenhereappeared.]

The appearance of this apparition of Uncle Sam was
received with cries, cheers, and loud clapping of
hands. The Professor bowed repeatedly in response
to this ovation, and it was a long time before he could
make himself heard by the audience. At last he
said in a loud voice:

“The audience will find the words of number
three printed on the last page of the programme, and
young and old are respectfully invited to jine in
the chorus.”

A fluttering of programmes followed and this is what
the audience found on the last page, “Hark!
and Hear the Eagle Scream, a new and original American
national air written, composed, and sung for the first
time in public by Professor Obadiah Strout, author
of last season’s great success, ‘Welcome
to the Town Committee,’”

I.

They
say our wheat’s by far the best;
Our
Injun corn will bear the test;
Our
butter, beef, and pork and cheese,
The
furriner’s appetite can please.
The
beans and fishballs that we can
Will
keep alive an Englishman;
While
many things I can’t relate
He
must buy from us or emigrate.

Chorus:

Raise
your voices, swing the banners,
Pound
the drums and bang pianners;
Blow
the fife and shriek for freedom,
’Meriky
is bound to lead ’em.
Emigrate!
ye toiling millions!
Sile
enuf for tens of billions!
Land
of honey, buttermilk, cream;
Hark!
and hear the eagle scream.

II.

Page 15

In
manufactures, too, we’re some;
Take
rubber shoes and chewing gum;
In
cotton cloth, and woollen, too,
In
time we shall outrival you;
Our
ships with ev’ry wind and tide,
With
England’s own will sail beside,
In
ev’ry port our flag unfurled,
When
the Stars and Stripes will rule the world.

Chorus:

III.

For
gold and silver, man and woman,
For
things that’s raided, made, dug, or human,
’Meriky’s
the coming nation;
She’s-bound
to conquer all creation!
Per’aps
you call this brag and bluster;
No,
’taint nuther, for we muster
The
best of brain, the mighty dollar;
We’ll
lead on, let others foller.

Chorus:

Professor Strout sang the solo part of the song himself.
The singing society and many of the audience joined
in the chorus. Like many teachers of vocal music,
the Professor had very little voice himself, but he
knew how to make the best possible use of what he did
possess. But the patriotic sentiment of the words,
the eccentric make-up of the singer his comical contortions
and odd grimaces, and what was really a bright, tuneful
melody won a marked success for both song and singer.
Encore followed encore. Like many more cultured
audiences in large cities the one assembled in Eastborough
Town Hall seemed to think that there was no limit
to a free concert and that they were entitled to all
they could get. But the Professor himself fixed
the limit. When the song had been sung through
three times he ran up the centre aisle of the platform
and facing the audience, he directed the chorus, holding
the variegated baton in one hand and swinging his
woolly plug hat around his head with the other.
At the close, amid screams, cheers, and clapping of
hands, he turned upon his heel, dashed through the
door and disappeared from sight.

The next number upon the programme was a piano solo
by Miss Tilly James. Nothing could have pleased
her audience any better than the well-known strains
of the ever popular “Maiden’s Prayer.”
In response to an encore which Quincy originated,
and dexterously led, Miss James played the overture
to Rossini’s “William Tell” without
notes. A fact which was perceived by the few,
but unnoticed by the many.

At the close of these instrumental selections, the
Professor reappeared in evening costume and again
assumed the directorship of the concert. Robert
Wood had a ponderous bass voice, which if not highly
cultivated was highly effective, and he sang “Simon
the Cellarer” to great acceptation. Next
followed a number of selections sung without accompaniment
by a male quartette composed of Cobb’s twins,
who were both tenors, Benjamin Bates, and Robert Wood.
This feature was loudly applauded and one old farmer
remarked to his neighbor, who was evidently deaf,
in a loud voice that was heard all over the hall, “That’s
the kind of music that fetches me,” which declaration
was a signal for another encore.

Page 16

The singing society then sang a barcarolle, the words
of the first line being, “Of the sea, our yacht
is the pride.” It went over the heads of
most of the audience, but was greatly appreciated fey
the limited few who were acquainted with the difficulties
of accidentals, syncopations, and inverted musical
phrases.

According to the programme the next feature was to
be a duet entitled “Over the Bridge,”
composed by Jewell and sung by Arthur Scates and Miss
Lindy Putnam. The Professor stepped forward and
waved his hand to quiet the somewhat noisy assemblage.

“The next number will have to be omitted,”
he said, “because Mr. Scates is home sick abed.
The doctor says he’s got a bad case of quinsy,”
with a marked emphasis on the last word, which, however,
failed to make a point. “In response to
requests, one verse of ’Hark! and Hear the Eagle
Scream’ will be sung to take the place of the
piece that’s left out.”

While the Professor was addressing the audience, Quincy
had whispered something in Deacon Mason’s ear
which caused the latter to smile and nod his head
approvingly. Quincy arose and reached the Professor’s
side just as the latter finished speaking and turned
towards the chorus. Quincy said something in
a low tone to the Professor which caused Mr. Strout
to shake his head in the negative in a most pronounced
manner. Quincy spoke again and looked towards
Miss Putnam, who was seated in the front row, and
whose face wore a somewhat disappointed look.

Again the Professor shook his head by way of negation
and the words, “It can’t be did,”
were distinctly audible to the majority of both singing
society and audience, at the same time a look of contempt
spread over the singing-master’s face.
Quincy perceived it and was nettled by it. He
was not daunted, however, nor to be shaken from his
purpose, so he said in a loud voice, which was heard
in all parts of the hall: “I know the song,
and will sing it if Miss Putnam and the audience are
willing.”

With a smile upon her face, Miss Putnam nodded her
acquiescence. All the townspeople had heard of
Quincy’s liberality in providing a hot supper
for the sleighing party the night before, and cries
of “Go ahead! Give him a chance! We
want to hear him!” and “Don’t disappoint
Miss Putnam,” were heard from all parts of the
hall. The Professor was obliged to give in.
He sat down with a disgusted look upon his face, and
from that moment war to the knife was declared between
these champions of city and country civilization.

Mr. Sawyer went to the piano, opened Miss James’s
copy of the music and placed it upon the music rack
before her, saying a few words to her which caused
her to smile. Quincy then approached Lindy, opened
her music at the proper place and passed it to her.
Next he took her hand and led her to the front of
the platform. These little acts of courtesy and
politeness, performed in an easy, graceful, and self-possessed
manner, were seen by all and won a round of applause.

Page 17

The duet was beautifully sung. Quincy had a fine
well-trained tenor voice, while Miss Putnam’s
mezzo-soprano was full and melodious and her rendition
fully as artistic as that of her companion. One,
two, three, four, five, six encores followed each
other in quick succession, in spite of Professor Strout’s
endeavors to quell the applause and take up the next
number. The ovation given earlier in the evening
to Professor Strout was weak in comparison with that
vouchsafed to Quincy and Lindy when they took their
seats. In vain did the Professor strive to make
himself heard. Audience and chorus seemed to be
of one mind. The Professor, his face as red as
a beet, turned to Ezekiel Pettengill and said:

“That was a mighty impudent piece of business,
don’t you think so?”

“They’re both mighty fine singers,”
Ezekiel responded in a rather unsympathetic tone.

Quincy realized that something must be done to satisfy
the demands of the now thoroughly excited audience.
Going to Miss James, he asked her a question in a
low voice, in reply to which she nodded affirmatively.
He next sought Miss Putnam and evidently asked her
the same question, receiving a similar answer.
Then he led her forward, and she sang the opening
part of “Listen to the Mocking Bird.”
After they had sung the chorus it was repeated on
the piano and Quincy electrified the audience by whistling
it, introducing all the trills, staccatos, and roulades
that he had heard so many times come from under Billy
Morris’s big mustache at the little Opera House
on Washington Street, opposite Milk, run by the Morris
Brothers, Johnny Pell, and Mr. Trowbridge, and when
he finished there flashed through his mind a pleasant
memory of Dr. Ordway and his Aeolians. An encore
was responded to, but the tumult still continued.
Turning to Ezekiel, Strout said:

“Ain’t it a cussed shame to spoil a first-class
concert this way?”

“He’s a mighty fine whistler,” replied
Ezekiel in the same tone that he had used before.

Finally to quiet their exuberance Quincy was obliged
to say a few words, which were evidently what the
audience was waiting for.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the
hour is getting late and there is another number on
the programme. Miss Putnam is tired and I shall
have to wet my whistle before I can use it again.
I thank you for your kind indulgence and applause.”

This little speech pleased the audience. It was
down to their level, with “no sign of stuckupativeness
about it,” as one country girl remarked to her
chum. Quincy bowed, the audience laughed, and
quiet was restored.

Page 18

The Professor had fidgeted, fumed, and fussed during
Quincy’s occupancy of the platform. He
now arose with feelings impossible to express and
took up his baton to lead the closing chorus.
He brought it down with such a whack upon the music
stand that it careened, tottered, and fell to the
platform with a crash. Tilly James leaned over
and whispered to Huldy Mason: “The Professor
seems to have a bad attack of Quincy, too.”
And the two girls smothered their laughs in their handkerchiefs.
If the singing society had not been so well acquainted
with the closing chorus the Professor certainly would
have thrown them out by his many mistakes in beating
time. The piece was a “sleighride”
song. The Professor forgot to give the signal
for the ringing of the sleigh bells, but the members
of the singing society did not, and their introduction,
which was unexpected by the audience, to use a theatrical
term, “brought down the house.” The
number was well rendered, despite the manifest defects
in leadership. The concert came to a close.

Deacon Mason and his wife, accompanied by their daughter,
Huldy, and Rev. Mr. Howe, occupied a double sleigh,
as did Hiram, Mandy, and Cobb’s twins.
Another double-seated conveyance contained Mr. and
Mrs. Benoni Hill, their son, Samuel, and Miss Tilly
James. Quincy also had accommodations for four
in his sleigh, but its only occupants were Miss Putnam
and himself. Abner Stiles sat on the front seat
of another double-seated sleigh, while the Professor
and Ezekiel were on the back one; the remainder of
the Mason’s Corner folks occupied the big barge
which had been used for the sleigh ride the night before.

The barge led the procession to Mason’s Corner,
followed by the vehicles previously mentioned and
scores of others containing residents of Mason’s
Corner, whose names and faces are alike unknown.
By a strange fatality, the sleigh containing the Professor
and Ezekiel was the last in the line. Ezekiel
was inwardly elated that Mr. Sawyer had gone home
with Lindy instead of with Deacon Mason’s party.
Strout’s bosom held no feelings of elation.
He did not seem to care whether the concert was considered
a success or not. He had but one thought in his
mind, and that was the “daring impudence of
that city feller.” Turning to Ezekiel,
he said:

[Illustration: “Thebargeledtheprocessiontomason’scorner.”]

“I’ll get even with that city chap the
next time I meet him. As I said last night, Pettengill,
this town ain’t big enough to ’hold both
on us and one on us has got to git.”

As he said this, he leaned back in the sleigh and
puffed his cigar savagely while Ezekiel was wondering
if Huldy was thinking half as much about him as he
was about her.

CHAPTER IV.

Ancestryversuspatriotism.

Four days had passed since the concert in the Town
Hall at Eastborough. The events of that evening
had been freely discussed in barn and workshop, at
table and at the various stores in Eastborough and
surrounding towns, for quite a number had been present
who were not residents of the town. All interest
in it had not, however, passed away as subsequent
occurrences proved.

Page 19

It was the morning of the fifth of January. Benoni
Hill, who ran the only grocery store at Mason’s
Corner, was behind his counter and with the aid of
his only son, Samuel, was attending to the wants of
several customers.

While thus engaged, Miss Tilly James entered, and
young Samuel Hill forgot to ask the customer on whom
he had been waiting the usual question, “Anything
else, ma’am?” so anxious was he to speak
to and wait upon the pretty Miss James, whose bright
eyes, dark curly hair, and witty remarks had attracted
to her side more suitors than had fallen to the lot
of any other young girl in the village. As yet
she had evinced no especial liking for any particular
one of the young men who flocked about her, and this
fact had only served to increase their admiration
for her and to spur them on to renewed efforts to win
her favor.

“Do you know, Miss James,” said Samuel,
“I can’t get it out of my ears yet.”
As he said this, he leaned over the counter, and being
a brave young man, looked straight into Miss James’s
smiling face.

“If all home remedies have failed,” said
Tilly, “why don’t you go to Boston and
have a doctor examine them?”

“What a joker you are!” remarked Samuel;
“I believe you will crack a joke on the minister
the day you are married.”

“It may be my last chance,” rejoined Tilly.
“Mother says the inside of a boiled onion put
into the ear is good for some troubles; give me a pound
of tea, Oolong and green mixed, same as we always have.”

As Samuel passed the neatly done up package to Miss
James, he leaned across the counter again and said
in a low voice, “You know what is in my ears,
Miss James. How beautifully you played for Mr.
Sawyer when he whistled ‘Listen to the Mocking
Bird.’ I don’t think I shall ever
forget it.”

“Well, I don’t know about the playing,
Mr. Hill. I came near losing my place several
times, because I wanted so much to hear him whistle.”

During this conversation Tilly and Samuel had been
so preoccupied that they had not noticed the entrance
of a new-comer and his approach towards them.
Only one other customer, a little girl, was left in
the store, and Mr. Hill, Sr., had gone down cellar
to draw her a quart of molasses.

As Tilly uttered the words, “I wanted so much
to hear him whistle,” she heard behind her in
clear, melodious, flute-like notes, the opening measures
of “Listen to the Mocking Bird.” Turning
quickly, she saw Mr. Sawyer standing beside her.

“Why, how do you do, Mr. Sawyer? I am delighted
to see you again,” she said in that hearty,
whole-souled way that was so captivating to her country
admirers.

“The delight is mutual,” replied Quincy,
raising his hat and bowing.

Samuel Hill was evidently somewhat disturbed by the
great friendliness of the greetings that he had just
witnessed. This fact did not escape Tilly’s
quick eye, and turning to Mr. Sawyer she said:

Page 20

“Have you been introduced to my friend, Mr.
Samuel Hill?”

“I have not had that pleasure,” replied
Quincy. “This is my first visit to the
store.”

“Then allow me,” continued Tilly, “to
present you to Mr. Samuel Hull and to Mr. Benoni Hill,
his father, both valued friends of mine,” and
she added, as a roguish smile came into her face,
“as they keep the only grocery store in the
village, you will be obliged to buy what they have
and pay them what they ask, unless you prefer a three-mile
tramp to Eastborough Centre.”

“I hope you’re enjoyin’ your stay
at Mason’s Corner,” said Mr. Benoni Hall,
“though I don’t s’pose you city folks
find much to please yer in a country town, ’specially
in the winter.”

“So far I have found two things that have pleased
me very much,” replied Quincy.

“The milk and eggs, I suppose,” remarked
Tilly.

“No,” said Quincy, “I refer to Miss
Lindy Putnam’s fine singing and the beautiful
playing of a young lady who is called Miss James.”

“I have heard,” said Tilly, “that
you city gentlemen are great flatterers. That
is not the reason why I am obliged to leave you so
suddenly, but the fact is the tea caddy ran low this
morning and grandma’s nerves will remain unstrung
until she gets a cup of strong tea.”

With a graceful bow and a parting wave of the hand
to the three gentlemen, the bright and popular young
lady left the store.

“Mr. Hill,” said Quincy, addressing the
elder gentleman, “I’ve smoked all the
cigars that I brought from Boston, but Deacon Mason
told me perhaps you had some that would suit me.
I like a good-sized, strong cigar and one that burns
freely.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hill, “Professor
Strout is the most partikler customer I have in cigars;
he says he always smokes a pipe in the house, ’cause
it don’t hang round the room so long as cigar
smoke does, but he likes a good cigar to smoke on
the street or when he goes ridin’. I just
had a new box come down for him last night. Perhaps
some of them will satisfy yer till I can git jest
the kind yer want.”

Mr. Hill took his claw-hammer and opening the box
passed it to Quincy, who took one of the cigars and
lighted it. As he did so he glanced at the brand
and the names of the makers, and remarked, “This
is a good cigar, I’ve smoked this brand before.
What do you ask for them?”

“I git ten cents straight, but as Mr. Strout
always smokes up the whole box before he gits through,
though he don’t usually buy more than five at
a time, I let him have ’em for nine cents apiece.
There ain’t much made on them, but yer see I
have to obleege my customers.”

“You don’t ask enough for them,”
said Quincy, throwing down a twenty-dollar bill.
“They sell for fifteen cents, two for a quarter,
in Boston.”

“How many will you have?” asked Mr. Hill,
thinking that Boston must be a paradise for shopkeepers,
when seven cents’ profit could be made on a
cigar that cost only eight cents.

Page 21

“I’ll take the whole box,” said
Quincy. “Call it ten dollars, that’s
cheap enough. No matter about the discount.”
As he said this he took half a dozen cigars from the
box and placed them in a silver-mounted, silk-embroidered
cigar case. “Please do them up for me, Mr.
Hill, and the next time Hiram Maxwell comes in he
will take them down to Deacon Mason’s for me.”

After much rummaging through till and pocketbook,
Mr. Hill and his son found ten dollars in change,
which was passed to Quincy. He stuffed the large
wad of small bills and fractional currency into his
overcoat pocket and sitting down on a pile of soap
boxes drummed on the lower one with his boot heels
and puffed his cigar with evident pleasure.

While Quincy was thus pleasantly engaged, Professor
Strout entered the store and walked briskly up to
the counter. He did not see, or if he did, he
did not notice, Quincy who kept his place upon the
pile of soap boxes. Strout was followed by Abner
Stiles, Robert Wood, and several other idlers, who
had been standing on the store platform when the Professor
arrived.

“What for?” asked Strout sharply.
“Wa’n’t it understood between us
that them cigars was to be kept for me?”

“That’s so,” acknowledged Mr. Hill,
“but you see, when I told that gentleman on
the soap box over yonder that you smoked them, he bought
the whole box, paid me a cent more apiece than you
do. A dollar’s worth saving nowadays.
He says they sell for fifteen cents, two for a quarter,
up in Boston.”

“If he’s so well posted on Boston prices,”
growled Strout, “why didn’t he pay them
instead of cheatin’ you out of two dollars and
a half? I consider it a very shabby trick, Mr.
Hill. I shall buy my cigars at Eastborough Centre
in the future. Perhaps you’ll lose more
than that dollar in the long run.”

“Perhaps the gentleman will let you have some
of them,” expostulated Mr. Hill, “till
I can get another box.”

“All I can say is,” said Strout in snappish
tones, “if the man who bought them knew that
you got them for me, he was no gentleman to take the
whole box. What do yer say, Stiles?” he
asked, turning to Abner, who had kept his eyes fixed
on the placid Quincy since entering the store, though
listening intently to what the Professor said.

“Well, I kinder reckon I agree to what you say,
Professor,” drawled Abner, “unless the
other side has got some sort of an explanation to
make. ’Tain’t quite fair to judge
a man without a hearin’.”

“Allow me to offer you one of your favorite
brand, Professor Strout,” said Quincy, jumping
down from the soap boxes and extending his cigar case.

“No! thank you!” said Strout, “I
always buy a box at a time, the same as you do.
Judging from the smell of the one you are smoking,
I guess they made a mistake on that box and sent second
quality. Give me a five-cent plug, Mr. Hill,
if some gentleman hasn’t bought out your whole
stock. I fancy my pipe will have to do me till
I get a chance to go over to Eastborough Centre.”

Page 22

During this conversation Hiram Maxwell had come in
to do an errand for Mrs. Mason, and several more platform
idlers, having heard the Professor’s loud words,
also entered.

Strout was angry. When in that condition he usually
lost his head, which he did on this occasion.
Turning to Quincy he said with a voice full of passion:

“What’s yer name, anyway? You’ve
got so many of them I don’t know which comes
fust and which last. Is it Quincy or Adams or
Sawyer? How in thunder did you get ’em
all, anyway? I s’pose they tucked ’em
on to you when you was a baby and you was too weak
to kick at being so abused.”

At this sally a loud laugh arose from the crowd gathered
in the store, and Abner Stiles, who was the Professor’s
henchman and man-of-all-work, cried out, “Fust
blood for the Professor.”

Quincy faced the Professor with a pale face and spoke
in clear, ringing tones, still holding his lighted
cigar between the fingers of his right hand.
When he spoke all listened intently.

“Your memory has served you well, Mr. Strout.
You have got my names correct and in the proper order,
Quincy Adams Sawyer. I do not consider that any
child could be abused by being obliged to wear such
honored names as those given me by my parents.
My mother was a Quincy, and that name is indissolubly
connected with the history and glory of our common
country. My father’s mother was an Adams,
a family that has given two Presidents to the United
States. If your knowledge of history is as great
as your memory for names you should be aware of these
facts, but your ignorance of them will not affect
the opinion of those knowing to them. My father,
Nathaniel Adams Sawyer, has a world-wide reputation
as a great constitutional lawyer, and I am proud to
bear his name, combined with those of my illustrious
ancestors. It is needless for me to add that
I, too, am connected with the legal profession.”

Here Hiram Maxwell called out, “First round
for Mr. Sawyer.”

“Shut up, you dough-head,” cried Strout,
his face purple with rage. Turning to Quincy
he said in a choked voice, “My name is Obadiah
Strout, no frills or folderols about it either.
That was my father’s name too, and he lived
and died an honest man, in spite of it. He raised
potatoes and one son, that was me. When the nation
called for volunteers I went to war to save the money
bags of such as you that stayed at home. It was
such fellers as you that made money out of mouldy biscuits
and rotten beef, shoddy clothin’, and paper-soled
boots. It was such fellers as your father that
lent their money to the government and got big interest
for it. They kept the war going as long as they
could. What cared they for the blood of the poor
soldier, as long as they could keep the profits and
interest coming in? It wasn’t the Quincys
and the Adamses and the other fellers with big names
that stayed at home and hollered who saved the country,
but the rank and file that did the fightin’,
and I was one of them.”

Page 23

As he said this the irascible Professor shook his
fist in Quincy’s face, to which a red flush
mounted, dyeing cheek and brow.

“That’s the Lord’s truth,”
said Abner Stiles. Then he called out in a loud
voice, “Second round for the Professor.
Now for the finish.”

But the finish did not come then. The settlement
between these two lingual disputants did not come
for many days. The reason for a sudden cessation
of the wordy conflict was a shrill, feminine voice,
which cried out from the store platform:

“Hiram Maxwell, where are you? Mother’s
most out of patience waiting for you.”

“Good Lord!” cried Hiram, breaking through
the crowd and rushing to the counter to make the long-deferred
purchase. “I’m coming in a minute.”

“I think I had better see you home,” remarked
Huldy Mason, entering the store.

As she advanced the crowd separated and moved backward,
leaving her a dear path.

“Why, how do you do, Mr. Sawyer?” said
she in a pleasant voice and with a sweet smile, as
she reached Quincy. “Won’t you help
me take Hiram home?”

“I should be happy to be of service to you,”
replied Quincy.

The professor turned his back toward Miss Mason and
began talking in an animated manner to Abner Stiles,
Bob Wood, and a few other ardent sympathizers who
gathered about him.

The rest of the crowd were evidently more interested
in watching the pretty Miss Mason and the genteel
Mr. Sawyer. When Hiram left the store with his
purchases under one arm and Quincy’s box of cigars
under the other, he was closely followed by Quincy
and Huldy, who were talking and laughing together.
The crowd of loungers streamed out on the platform
again to watch their departure. As Quincy and
Huldy turned from the square into the road that led
to the Deacon’s house they met Ezekiel Pettengill.
Huldy nodded gayly and Quincy raised his hat, but Ezekiel
was not acquainted with city customs and did not return
the salutation. A few moments later the Professor
and Abner Stiles were relating to him the exciting
occurrences of the last half hour.

CHAPTER V.

Mr. SawyermeetsuncleIke.

Quincy Adams Sawyer had not come down to Mason’s
Corner with any idea of becoming a hermit. His
father was a great lawyer and a very wealthy man.
He had made Quincy a large allowance during his college
days, and had doubled it when his only son entered
his law office to complete his studies.

Quincy had worked hard in two ways; first, to read
law, so as to realize the great anticipations that
his father had concerning him; second, he worked still
harder between eight in the evening and one, two, and
even four in the morning, to get rid of the too large
allowance that his father made him.

Like all great men, his father was unsuspicious and
easily hoodwinked about family matters; so when Quincy
grew listless and on certain occasions fell asleep
at his desk his renowned and indulgent father decided
it was due to overwork and sent him down to Eastborough
for a month’s rest and change of scene.

Page 24

His father had known Isaac Pettengill, and in fact
had conducted many successful suits for him; besides
this he had drawn up the papers when Uncle Ike divided
his fortune. Quincy’s father had written
to Uncle Ike, asking him to find his son a boarding
place, and Uncle Ike had selected Deacon Mason’s
as the best place for him.

Quincy’s father had told him to be sure and
get acquainted with Mr. Isaac Pettengill, saying he
was a man of fine education, and added, “I sometimes
feel, Quincy, as though I would like to go into the
country and take care of a chicken farm myself for
a while.”

His mother came of the best New England stock, and
although she had been named Sarah and her husband’s
name was Nathaniel, we have seen that the son had
been endowed with the rather high-sounding name of
Quincy Adams, which his schoolmates had shortened
to Quince, and his college friends had still further
abbreviated to Quinn. Quincy had two sisters and
they had been equally honored with high-sounding appellations,
the elder being called Florence Estelle and the younger
Maude Gertrude, but to pa, ma, brother, and friends
they were known as Flossie and Gertie.

The next day after the affair at Hill’s grocery,
Quincy put several of the best cigars in town in his
pocket and started towards Eastborough Centre for
a walk, intending to call upon Uncle Ike Pettengill.

The young man knew that late hours and their usual
accompaniments were what had undermined his health,
so he determined to make his vacation of good service
to him and recover his accustomed health and strength,
and when he returned home cut his old acquaintances
and settle down earnestly and honestly to the battle
of life.

He had teen a favorite in city society; he was well
educated, well read, had travelled considerably and
was uniformly polite and affable to all classes, from
young children to old men and women; he was very careful
about his dress, and always had that well-groomed appearance,
which in the city elicits commendation, but which
leads the average countryman to say “dude”
to himself and near friends when talking about him.

Quincy was no dude; he had been prominent in all college
athletic games; he had been a member of the ’varsity
eight in one of its contests with Yale, and had won
a game for Harvard with Yale at base ball by making
a home run in the tenth inning on a tied score.
He was a good musician and fine singer. In addition
he was a graceful dancer, and had taken lessons in
boxing, until his feather-weight teacher suggested
that he had better find a heavy-weight instructor
to practise on.

Quincy was in his twenty-third year. He had been
in love a dozen times, but, as he expressed it, had
been saved from matrimony by getting acquainted with
a prettier girl just as he was on the point of popping
the question.

But we left him walking along on his way to Eastborough
Centre. Deacon Mason had told him Uncle Ike’s
house was away from the road, some hundred feet back,
and that he could not mistake it, as he could see the
chicken coop from the road. He finally reached
it after traversing about a mile and a half, it being
another mile and a half to Eastborough Centre.

Page 25

He found the path that led to the house. As he
neared the steps a huge dog arose from a reclining
posture and faced him, not in an ugly mood, but with
an expression that seemed to-say, “An introduction
will be necessary before you come any farther.”
The dog seemed to understand that it was his duty
to bring about the necessary introduction, so he gave
a series of loud barks. The door was quickly opened
and Uncle Ike stood in the doorway.

“Do I address Mr. Isaac Pettengill?” asked
Quincy.

Uncle Ike replied, “That’s what they write
on my letters.”

Quincy continued, “My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer.
I am the only son of the Hon. Nathaniel Sawyer of
Boston, and I bear a letter of introduction from him
to you.”

Quincy took the letter from his pocket and held it
in his hand. The dog made a quick movement forward
and before Quincy could divine his object, he took
the letter in his mouth and took it to Uncle Ike, and,
returning, faced Quincy again.

Uncle Ike read the letter slowly and carefully; then
he turned to Quincy and said, “If you will talk
about birds, fish, dogs, and chickens, you are welcome,
and I shall be glad to see you now or any time.
If you talk about lawsuits or religion I shall be
sorry that you came. I am sick of lawyers and
ministers. If you insist upon talking on such
subjects I’ll tell Swiss, and the next time
you come he won’t even bark to let me know you’re
here.”

Quincy took in the situation, and smiling said, “I
am tired of lawyers and lawsuits myself; that is the
reason I came down here for a change. The subjects
you mention will satisfy me, if you will allow me to
put in a few words about rowing, running, boxing,
and football.”

Uncle Ike replied, “The physically perfect man
I admire, the intellectually perfect man is usually
a big bore; I prefer the company of my chickens.”
Turning to Swiss he said with a marked change in his
voice, “This is a friend of mine, Swiss.”
Turning to Quincy he said, “He will admit you
until I give him directions to the contrary.”

The dog walked quietly to one side and Quincy advanced
with outstretched hand toward Uncle Ike.

Uncle Ike did not extend his. He said, “I
never shake hands, young man. It is a hollow
social custom. With Damon and Pythias it meant
something. One was ready to die for the other,
and that hand-clasp meant friendship until death.
How many hand shakings mean that nowadays? Besides,”
with a queer smile, “I have just been cutting
up a broiler that I intend to cook for my dinner.
Come in, you are welcome on the conditions I have
mentioned.”

Quincy obeyed and stepped into the kitchen of Sleepy
Hollow. He owned to himself in after years that
that was the most important step he had taken in life—­the
turning-point in his career.

CHAPTER VI.

Somenewideas.

Page 26

“Did you ever kill a chicken?” asked Uncle
Ike, as Quincy entered the room and took a seat in
the willow rocker Uncle Ike pointed out to him.

“No,” replied Quincy, “but out in
Chicago I saw live hogs killed, bristles taken off,
cut up, assorted according to kind and quality, and
hung up to cool off, in three minutes.”

Uncle Ike responded vehemently, “Yes, I know,
and it is a shame to the American people that they
allow such things.”

“That may be true,” said Quincy, “but
even at that speed they cannot kill and pack as fast
as it is wanted.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Ike, “in the old
days man feared God, and he treated man and beast
better for that reason. In these days man serves
Mammon and he will do anything to win his favor.”

“Do you think it is true that men were better
in the old days?” asked Quincy.

“No,” answered Uncle Ike, “I didn’t
say so. I said that in the old days man was afraid
to do these things; now if he has money he is afraid
of neither God, man, nor the devil. To speak
frankly, that is why I am so independent myself.
I am sure of enough to support me as long as I live;
I owe no man anything, and I allow no man to owe me
anything.”

Uncle Ike said, “Let me tell you why I devised
a new plan. When I was about eight years old
I went with my mother to visit an uncle in a neighboring
town. I was born in Eastborough myself, in the
old Pettengill house. But this happened some
twenty miles from here. My uncle was chopping
wood, and boy like, I went out to watch him. An
old rooster kept running around the block, flapping
its wings, making considerable noise. Uncle shooed
him off three or four times. Finally uncle made
a grab at him, caught him by the legs, whacked him
down on the block and with his axe cut off his head
close to his body, and then threw it out on the grass
right in front of me. Was that rooster dead?
I thought not. It got up on its legs, ran right
towards where I was sitting, and before I could get
away I was covered with the blood that came from its
neck. I don’t know how far the rooster ran,
but I know I never stopped until I was safe in my
mother’s arms. The balance of the time
I stayed there you couldn’t get me within forty
yards of my uncle, for every time I met him I could
see myself running around without my head.”

“That made a lasting impression on you,”
remarked Quincy.

“Yes,” said Uncle Ike, “it has lasted
me sixty-eight years, one month, and thirteen days,”
pointing to a calendar that hung on the wall.

As Quincy looked in the direction indicated he saw
something hanging beside it that attracted his attention.

It was a sheet of white paper with a heavy black border.
Within the border were written these words, “Sacred
to the memory of Isaac Pettengill, who was killed
at the battle of Gettysburg, July 4th, 1863, aged
twenty-nine years. He died for his namesake and
his native land.”

Page 27

Quincy said interrogatively, “Did you lose a
son in the war?”

“No,” was the reply. “I never
had a son. That was my substitute.”

“Strange that your substitute should have the
same name as yourself.”

“Yes, it would have been if he had, but he didn’t.
His right name was Lemuel Butters. But I didn’t
propose to put my money into such a name as that.”

“Were you drafted?” asked Quincy.

“No,” said Uncle Ike. “I might
as well tell you the whole story, for you seem bound
to have it. I came down here in 1850, when I was
about sixty. Of course I knew what was going
on, but I didn’t take much interest in the war,
till a lot of soldiers went by one day. They stopped
here; we had a talk, and they told me a number of
things that I hadn’t seen in the papers.
I haven’t read the daily papers for thirteen
years, but I take some weeklies and the magazines
and buy some books. Well, the next day I went
over to Eastborough Centre and asked the selectmen
how much it would cost to send a man to the war.
They said substitutes were bringing $150 just then,
but that I was over age and couldn’t be drafted,
and there was no need of my sending anybody. I
remarked that in my opinion a man’s patriotism
ought not to die out as long as he lived. It
seemed to me that if a man had $150 it was his duty
to pay for a substitute, if he was a hundred.
The selectmen said that they had a young fellow named
Lem Butters who was willing to go if he got a hundred
and fifty. So I planked down the money, but with
the understanding that he should take my name.
Well, to make a long story short, I got killed at
Gettysburg and I wrote that out as a reminder.”

“Don’t you ever get lonesome alone here
by yourself?” Quincy asked.

“Yes,” said Uncle Ike. “I am
lonesome every minute of the time. That’s
what I came down here for. I got tired being lonesome
with other people around me, so I thought I would
come down here and be lonesome all by myself, and
I have never been sorry I came.”

Quincy opened his eyes and looked inquiringly at Uncle
Ike.

“I don’t quite understand what you mean
by being lonesome with other people around you,”
said he.

“No, of course you don’t,” replied
Uncle Ike. “You are too young. I was
sixty. I was thirty-five when I got married and
my wife was only twenty-two, so when I was sixty she
was only forty-seven. One girl was twenty-three
and the other twenty. I went to work at seven
o’clock in the morning and got home at seven
at night. My wife and daughters went to theatres,
dinners, and parties, and of course I stayed at home
and kept house with the servant girl. In my business
I had taken in two young fellows as partners, both
good, honest men, but soon they got to figuring that
on business points they were two and I was one, and
pretty soon all I had to do was to put wood on the
fire and feed the office cat. So you can see
I was pretty lonesome about eighteen hours out of
the twenty-four.”

Page 28

Quincy said reflectively, “And your family—­”

Uncle Ike broke in, “Are alive and well, I suppose.
They don’t write me and I don’t write
them. I told my partners they must buy me out,
and I gave them sixty days to do it in. I gave
my wife and daughters two-thirds of my fortune and
put the other third into an annuity. I am calculating
now that if my health holds good I shall beat the insurance
company in the end.”

Uncle Ike laughed quietly. “I don’t
read the daily papers as I said, so I don’t
know, but they wouldn’t send me cards anyway.
They know my ideas of marriage.”

Quincy, smiling, asked, “Have you some new ideas
on that old custom?”

“Yes, I have,” replied Uncle Ike.
“If two men go into business and each puts in
money and they make money or don’t make it, the
law doesn’t fix it so that they must keep together
for their natural lives, but allows the firm to be
dissolved by mutual consent.”

“Why, sir, that would make marriage a limited
partnership,” said Quincy with a smile.

“What better is it now?” asked Uncle Ike.
“The law doesn’t compel couples to live
together if they don’t want to, and if they don’t
want to live together, why not let them, under proper
restrictions, get up some new firms? Of course,
there wouldn’t be any objection to parties living
together for their natural lives, if they wanted to,
and the fact that they did would be pretty good proof
that they wanted to.”

Quincy started to speak, “But what—­”

“I know what you were going to say,” said
Uncle Ike. “You are going to ask that tiresome
old question, what will become of the children?
Well, I should consider them part of the property
on hand and divide them and the money according to
law.”

“But few mothers would consent to be parted
from their children.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” replied Uncle
Ike. “I have a Massachusetts State Report
here that says about five hundred children every year
are abandoned by their mothers for some cause or other.
They leave them on doorsteps and in railroad stations;
they put them out to board and don’t pay their
board; and the report says that every one of these
little waifs is adopted by good people, and they get
a better education and a better bringing up than their
own parents could or would give them. Have you
ever read, Mr. Sawyer, of the Austrian baron who was
crossed in love and decided he would never marry?”

Quincy shook his head.

“Well, he was wealthy and had a big castle,
with no one to live in it, and during his life he
adopted, educated, clothed, and sent out into the
world, fitted to make their own living, more than a
thousand children. To my mind, Mr. Sawyer, he
was a bigger man than any emperor or king who has
ever lived.”

Quincy asked, “But how are you going to start
such a reform, Mr. Pettengill? The first couple
that got reunited on the partnership plan would be
the laughing stock of the community.”

Page 29

“Just so,” said Uncle Ike, “but
I can get over that difficulty. The State of
Massachusetts has led in a great many social reforms.
Let it take the first step forward in this one; let
it declare by law that all marriages on and after
a certain day shall terminate five years from the
date of marriage unless the couples wish to renew the
bonds. Then let everybody laugh at everybody
else if they want to.”

“Well, how about those couples that were married
before that day?”

“That’s easy,” was Uncle Ike’s
reply. “Give them all a chance five years
after the law to dissolve by mutual consent, if they
want to. Don’t forget, Mr. Sawyer, that
with such a law there would be no need of divorce
courts, and if any man insulted a woman, imprisonment
for life and even the gallows wouldn’t be any
too good for him. Will you stay to lunch, Mr.
Sawyer? My chicken is about done.”

Quincy arose and politely declined the invitation,
saying he had been so much interested he had remained
much longer than he had intended, but he would be
pleased to call again some day if Mr. Pettengill were
willing.

“Oh, yes, come any time,” said Uncle Ike,
“you’re a good listener, and I always
like a man that allows me to do most of the talking.
By the way, we didn’t get a chance to say much
this time about shooting, fishing, or football.”

Quincy went down the steps, and Uncle Ike stood at
the door, as he did before he entered. Swiss
looked at Quincy with an expression that seemed to
say, “You have made a pretty long call.”
Quincy patted him on the head, called him “good
dog,” and walked briskly down the path towards
the road. When he was about fifty feet from the
house, Uncle Ike called out sharply, “Mr. Sawyer!”
Quincy turned on his heel quickly and looked towards
the speaker. Uncle Ike’s voice, still sharp,
spoke these farewell words:

“I forgot to tell you, Mr. Sawyer, that I always
chloroform my chickens before I cut their heads off.”

He stepped back into the house. Swiss, with a
bound, was in the room beside him, and when Quincy
again turned his steps towards the road the closed
door had shut them both from view.

CHAPTER VII.

“Thatcityfeller.”

As usual, the next morning Hiram was down to the Pettengill
house between nine and ten o’clock. He
opened the kitchen door unobserved by Mandy and looked
in at her. She was standing at the sink washing
dishes and singing to herself. Suddenly Hiram
gave a jump into the room and cried out in a loud
voice, “How are you, Mandy?”

She dropped a tin pan that she was wiping, which fell
with a clatter, breaking a plate that happened to
be in the sink.

“I’m much worse, thank you,” she
retorted, “and none the better for seeing you.
What do you mean by coming into the house and yelling
like a wild Injin? I shall expect you to pay
for that plate anyway.”

Page 30

“He who breaks pays,” said Hiram with
a laugh. “But why don’t you shake
hands with a fellow?”

“I will if I like and I won’t if I like,”
replied Mandy, extending her hand, which was covered
with soapsuds.

“Wipe your hand,” said Hiram, “and
I’ll give you this ten cents to pay for the
plate.”

As he said this he extended the money towards her.
Mandy did not attempt to take it, but giving her wet
hand a flip threw the soapsuds full in Hiram’s
face. He rushed forward and caught her about the
waist; as he did so he dropped the money, which rolled
under the kitchen table.

Mandy turned around quickly and facing Hiram, caught
him by both ears, which she pulled vigorously.
He released his hold upon her and jumped back to escape
further punishment.

“Now, Mr. Hiram Maxwell,” said she, facing
him, “what do you mean by such actions?
I’ve a good mind to put you outdoors and never
set eyes on you again. What would Mr. Pettengill
have thought if he’d a come in a minute ago?”

“I guess he’d a thought that I was gittin’
on better’n I really am,” replied Hiram,
with a crestfallen look. “Now, Mandy, don’t
get mad, I didn’t mean nothin’, I was
only foolin’ and you began it fust, by throwin’
that dirty water in my face, and no feller that had
any spunk could stand that.” As he said
this, a broad smile covered his face. “Say,
Mandy,” he continued, “here comes Obadiah
Strout, we’d better make up before he gits in
or it’ll be all over town that you and me have
been fightin’. Got any chores this mornin’,
Mandy, that I can do for you?”

At this moment the kitchen door was again opened and
Professor Strout entered.

“Where’s Pettengill?” he asked of
Mandy, not noticing Hiram.

“I guess he’s out in the wood-shed, if
he hasn’t gone somewheres else,” replied
Mandy, resuming her work at the sink.

Strout turned towards Hiram and said, as if he had
been unaware previously of his presence, “Oh!
you there, Hiram? Just go find Pettengill for
me like a good feller and tell him Professor Strout
wishes to see him up to the house.”

“At the same time, Hiram,” said Mandy,
“go find me that dozen eggs that I told you
I wanted for that puddin’.”

Hiram winked at Mandy, unseen by the Professor and
started for the chicken coop.

“Guess I’ll have a chair,” remarked
the Professor.

“All right, if you don’t take it with
you when you go,” replied Mandy, still busily
washing dishes.

“Fine weather,” said Strout.

“Sorter between,” laconically replied
Mandy.

“Did you enjoy the concert?” asked Strout.

“Some parts of it,” said Mandy. “I
thought Mr. Sawyer and Miss Putnam were just splendid.
His whistling was just grand.”

“He’ll whistle another kind of a tune
in a few days,” remarked Strout.

“What? Are you going to give another concert?”
asked Mandy, looking at him for the first time.

Page 31

“If I do,” replied the Professor, “you
bet he won’t be one of the performers.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mandy, “you’re
mad with him ’cause he hogged the whole show.
Mr. Maxwell was just telling me as how Mr. Sawyer was
going to hire the Town Hall on Washington’s
birthday and bring down a big brass band from Boston
and give a concert that would put you in the shade,
and somebody was telling me, I forget who, that Mr.
Sawyer don’t like to sit ‘round doing
nothin’, and he’s goin’ to give music
lessons.”

These last two untruthful shots hit the mark, as she
knew they would, and Strout, abandoning the subject,
blurted out, “Where in thunder’s that
Hiram? I’ll be blowed if I don’t believe
he went to look for the eggs first.”

“I reckon he did,” said Mandy, “if
he means to keep on good terms with me. He ain’t
likely to tend to stray jobs till he’s done up
his regular chores.”

“I s’pose Deacon Mason sends him down
here to wait on you?” remarked Strout with a
sneer.

“Did Deacon Mason tell you that you could have
him to run your errands?” inquired Mandy, with
a pout.

“Guess the best thing I can do,” said
Strout rising, “is to go hunt Pettengill up
myself.”

“I guess you’ve struck it right this time,”
assented Mandy, as Strout left the room and started
for the wood-shed.

As he closed the door, Mandy resumed her singing as
though such conversations were of everyday occurrence.

She finished her work at the sink and was fixing the
kitchen fire when Hiram returned.

“All I could find,” said he, holding an
egg in each hand. “The hens must have struck
or think it’s a holiday. S’pose there’s
any out in the barn? Come, let’s go look,
Mandy. Where’s old Strout?”

“I kinder thought he would if I stayed long
enough,” said Hiram, with a grin; “but
come along, Mandy, no hen fruit, no puddin’.”

“Mr. Maxwell,” said Mandy, soberly, “I
wish you’d be more particular about your language.
You know I abominate slang. You know how careful
I try to be.”

“You’re a dandy,” said Hiram, taking
her hand.

They ran as far as the wood-shed, when seeing the
door open, they hid behind it until Strout came out
and walked down towards the lane to meet Ezekiel,
whom he had seen coming up from the road. Then
Hiram and Mandy sped on their way to the barn, which
they quickly reached and were soon upon the haymow,
apparently searching intently for eggs.

When Strout reached Ezekiel he shook hands with him
and said, “Come up to the barn, Pettengill,
I’ve got a little somethin’ I want to tell
you and it’s kinder private. It’s
about that city feller that’s swellin’
round here puttin’ on airs and tryin’ to
make us think that his father is a bigger man than
George Washington. He about the same as told me
down to the grocery store that the blood of all the
Quincys flowed in one arm and the blood of all the
Adams in the other, but I kinder guess that the rest
of his carcass is full of calf’s blood and there’s
more fuss and feathers than fight to him.”

Page 32

By this time they had reached the barn and they sat
down upon a pile of hay at the foot of the mow.

“Now my plan’s this,” said Strout.
“You know Bob Wood; well, he’s the biggest
feller and the best fighter in town. I’m
goin’ to post Bob up as to how to pick a quarrel
with that city feller. When he gets the lickin’
that he deserves, I rayther think that Deacon Mason
will lose a boarder.”

“But s’posin’ Mr. Sawyer licks Bob
Wood?” queried Ezekiel.

“Oh! I don’t count much on that,”
said Strout; “but if it should turn out that
way we’re goin’ to turn in and get up a
surprise party for Miss Mason and jist leave him out.”

“I hope you ain’t goin’ to do any
fightin’ down to Deacon Mason’s?”
remarked Ezekiel.

“Oh, no!” protested Strout, “it’ll
be kind o’ quiet, underminin’ work, as
it were. Remarks and sayin’s and side whispers
and odd looks, the cold shoulder business, you know,
that soon tells a feller that his company ain’t
appreciated.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s quite
fair,” said Ezekiel. “You don’t
like him, Mr. Strout, but I don’t think the
whole town will take it up.”

The Professor said sternly, “He has insulted
me and in doing that he has insulted the whole town
of Eastborough.”

A smothered laugh was heard.

“By George! What was that?” cried
Strout.

Ezekiel was at a loss what to say, and before he could
reply, Mandy’s laughing had caused the hay to
move. As it began to slide she clutched at Hiram
in a vain effort to save herself, and the next instant
a large pile of hay, bearing Hiram and Mandy, came
down, falling upon Ezekiel and Strout and covering
them from sight.

When all had struggled to their feet, Ezekiel turned
to Mandy and said sharply, “What were you doin’
up there, Mandy?”

“Looking for eggs,” said she, as she ran
out of the barn and started for the house.

Hiram stood with his mouth distended with a huge smile.
Strout turned towards him and said savagely, “Well,
if you’re the only egg she got, ’twas
a mighty bad one.”

Hiram retorted, “I would rather be called a
bad egg than somethin’ I heard about you.”

Strout, in a passion, cried out, “Who said anything
about me?”

Hiram made for the barn door and then said, “heard
a gentleman say as how there was only one jackass
in Eastborough and he taught the singin’ school.”

Strout caught up a rake to throw at him, but Hiram
was out of sight before he could carry out his purpose.
Turning to Ezekiel, Strout said, “I bet a dollar,
Pettengill, it was that city feller that said that,
and as I have twice remarked and this makes three
times, this town ain’t big enough to hold both
on us.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Cityskillversuscountrymuscle.

Hiram Maxwell was not called upon to perform very
arduous duties at Deacon Mason’s. The Deacon
had given up farming several years before, and Hiram’s
duties consisted in doing the chores about the house.
He had plenty of spare time, and he used it by going
down to the Pettengill place and talking to Mandy
Skinner.

Page 33

The next morning after the adventure in the barn,
Hiram went down as usual after his morning’s
work was done to see Mandy.

“How do you find things, Mandy?” said
Hiram, opening the kitchen door and putting his head
in.

“By looking for them,” said Mandy, without
looking up from her work.

“You are awful smart, ain’t you?”
retorted Hiram.

Mandy replied, “People’s opinion that
I think a good deal more of than yours have said that
same thing, Mr. Maxwell.”

Hiram saw that he was worsted, so he changed the conversation.

“Anybody to hum?”

Mandy answered sharply, “Everybody’s out
but me, of course I am nobody.”

Hiram came in and closed the door.

“You needn’t be so pesky smart with your
tongue, Mandy. Of course I can’t keep up
with you and you know it. What’s up?”

Mandy replied, “The thermometer. It isn’t
nearly as cold as it was yesterday.”

Hiram, seeing a breakfast apparently laid out on a
side table inquired, “Expectin’ somebody
to breakfast?”

“No,” said Mandy, “I got that ready
for Mr. Pettengill, but he didn’t have time
to eat it because he was afraid he would lose the train.”

“Has he gone to the city?” asked Hiram.

“I ’spect he has,” answered Mandy.

“Well,” remarked Hiram, “s’posin’
I eat that breakfast myself, so as to save you the
trouble of throwin’ it away.”

“Well,” said Mandy, “I was going
to give it to the pigs; I suppose one hog might as
well have it as another.”

Hiram said, “Why, you don’t call me a
big eater, do you, Mandy?”

Mandy laughed and said, “I can’t tell,
I never saw you when you wasn’t hungry.
How do you know when you have got enough?”

Hiram said, “I haven’t got but one way
of tellin’, I allus eats till it hurts me, then
I stop while the pain lasts.”

Then he asked Mandy, “What did ’Zekiel
go to the city for?”

Mandy answered, “Mr. Pettengill does not confide
his private business to me.”

Hiram broke in, “I bet a dollar you know why
he went, just the same.”

Mandy said, “I bet a dollar I do.”

Then she broke into a loud laugh. Hiram evidently
thought it was very funny and laughed until the tears
stood in his eyes.

“What are you laughing for?” asked Mandy.

Hiram’s countenance fell.

“Come down to the fine point, Mandy, durned
if I know.”

“That’s a great trick of yours, Hiram,”
said Mandy. “You ought not to laugh at
anything unless you understand it.”

“I guess I wouldn’t laugh much then,”
said Hiram. “I allus laugh when I don’t
understand anythin’, so folks won’t think
that I don’t know where the p’int domes
in. But say, Mandy, what did Pettengill go to
the city for?”

During this conversation Hiram had been eating the
breakfast that had been prepared for Ezekiel.
Mandy sat down near him and said, “I’ll
tell you, but it ain’t nothing to laugh at.
Mr. Pettengill had a telegraph message come last night.”

Page 34

“You don’t say so!” said Hiram.
“It must be pretty important for persons to
spend money that way. Nobody dead, I s’pose?”

“Well,” said Mandy, “Mr. Pettengill
left the telegram in his room and I had to read it
to see whether I had to throw it away or not, and I
remember every word that was in it.”

Hiram asked earnestly, “Well, what was it?
Is his sister Alice goin’ to get married?”

Mandy answered, “No, she is sick and she wanted
him to come right up to Boston at once to see her.”

Hiram said, “’Zekiel must think a powerful
lot of that sister of his’n. Went right
off to Boston without his breakfast.”

“I guess it would have to be something nearer
than a sister to make you do that,” said Mandy.
“I don’t know but one thing, Hiram, that
would make you go without your feed.”

“What’s that, Mandy?” said he.
“You?”

“No,” replied Mandy, “a famine.”

“You ain’t no sort of an idea as to what’s
the matter with her, have you?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t,” said Mandy, “and
if I had I don’t imagine I would tell you.
Now you better run right home, little boy, for I have
to go upstairs and do the chamber work.”

She whisked out of the room, and Hiram, helping himself
to a couple of apples, left the house and walked slowly
along the road towards Eastborough Centre.

Suddenly he espied a man coming up the road and soon
saw it was Quincy Adams Sawyer.

“Just the feller I wanted to see,” soliliquized
Hiram.

As Quincy reached him he said, “Mr. Sawyer,
I want to speak to you a minute or two. Come
into Pettengill’s barn, there’s nobody
to hum but Mandy and she’s upstairs makin’
the beds.”

They entered the barn and sat down on a couple of
half barrels that served for stools.

“Mr. Sawyer, you’ve treated me fust rate
since you’ve been here and I want to do you
a good turn and put you on your guard.”

Quincy laughed.

Hiram continued, “Well, maybe you won’t
laugh if Bob Wood tackles you. I won’t
tell you how I found it out for I’m no eavesdropper,
but keep your eye on Bob Wood and look out he don’t
play no mean tricks on you.”

Quincy remarked, “I suppose Mr. Strout is at
the bottom of this and he has hired this Bob Wood
to do what he can’t do himself.”

“I guess you have got it about right, Mr. Sawyer,”
said Hiram. “Can you fight?” he asked
of Quincy.

“I am a good shot with a rifle,” Quincy
replied. “I can hit the ace of hearts at
one hundred feet with a pistol.”

“I don’t mean that,” said Hiram.
“Can you fight with yer fists?”

“I don’t know much about it,” said
Quincy with a queer smile.

“Then I am afraid you will find Bob Wood a pretty
tough customer. He can lick any two fellers in
town. Why, he polished off Cobb’s twins
one day in less than five minutes, both of ’em.”

“Where does this Bob Wood spend most of his
time?” asked Quincy.

Page 35

“He loafs around Hill’s grocery.
When he ain’t wokin’ at his trade,”
said Hiram, “he does odd jobs for the Putnams
in summer and cuts some wood for them in winter.
You know Lindy Putnam, the gal you sang with at the
concert?”

“Come along,” said Quincy, “I feel
pretty good this morning, we’ll walk down to
Hill’s and see if that Mr. Wood has anything
to say to me.”

“Don’t you think the best plan, Mr. Sawyer,
would be to keep out of his way?” queried Hiram.

“Well, I can’t tell that,” said
Quincy, “until I get better acquainted with
him. After that he may think he’d better
keep out of my way.”

“Why, he’s twice as big as you,”
cried Hiram, with a look of astonishment on his face.

“Come along, Hiram,” said Quincy.
“By the way, I haven’t seen Miss Putnam
since the concert. I think I will have to call
on her.”

Hiram laughed until his face was as red as a beet.

“By gum, that’s good,” he said,
as he struck both legs with his hands.

“What’s good?” asked Quincy.
“Calling on Miss Putnam?”

“Yes,” said Hiram. “Wouldn’t
she be s’prised?”

“Why?” asked Quincy. “Such
a call wouldn’t be considered anything out of
the way in the city.”

“No, nor it wouldn’t here,” said
Hiram, “but for the fact that Miss Putnam don’t
encourage callers. She goes round a visitin’
herself, and she treats the other girls fust rate,
’cause she has plenty of money and can afford
it. But she has got two good reasons for not wantin’
visitors.”

“What are they?” asked Quincy.

“Well, I’m country myself,” said
Hiram, “and there are others in Eastborough
that are more country than I am. But if you want
to see and hear the genooine old Rubes you want to
see old Sy Putnam and his wife Heppy.”

“But Miss Mason said Miss Putnam was quite wealthy.”

“You bet she is,” said Hiram. “She’s
worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”

“I think you must mean thousands,” remarked
Quincy.

“Well, as far as I’m concerned,”
said Hiram, “when you talk about millions or
thousands of money, one’s just the same to me
as t’other. I never seed so much money
in my life as I seed since you’ve been here,
but I don’t want you to think I’m beggin’
for more.”

“No,” said Quincy, “I should never
impute such a motive to you.”

Quincy took a dollar bill from his pocket and held
it up before Hiram.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“That’s one hundred cents,” said
Hiram, “considerably more than I have got.”

“Well,” said Quincy, “if you tell
me why Miss Putnam doesn’t like callers I will
give you that dollar.”

“Stop a minute,” replied Hiram. “Soon
as we turn this next corner we’ll be in full
sight of the grocery store. You can go ahead and
I’ll slip ’cross lots and come up from
behind the store. If Wood thought I’d told
you he would lick me and I’m no fighter.
Now about Miss Putnam,” dropping his voice,
“I heard it said, and I guess it’s pretty
near the truth, that she is so blamed stuck up and
dresses so fine in city fashions that she is just
’shamed of her old pa and ma and don’t
want nobody to see ’em.”

Page 36

“But,” asked Quincy, “where did
she get her money?”

Hiram answered, “From her only brother.
He went down to Boston, made a pile of money, then
died and left it all to Lindy. If what I’ve
told you ain’t gospel truth it’s mighty
near it. Well, I’ll see you later, Mr.
Sawyer.”

And Hiram ran down a path that led across the fields.

Quincy turned the corner and walked briskly towards
Hill’s grocery store. A dozen or more young
men and as many older ones were lounging about the
platform that ran the whole length of the store, for
it was a very mild day in January, and the snow was
rapidly leaving under the influence of what might
be called a January thaw.

Quincy walked through the crowd, giving a friendly
nod to several faces that looked familiar, but the
names of whose owners were unknown to him. He
entered the store, found a letter from his mother and
another from his sister Gertie, and saying “Good
morning” to Mr. Hill, who was the village postmaster,
soon reached the platform again.

As he did so a heavily built young fellow, fully six
feet tall and having a coarse red face, stepped up
to him and said brusquely, “I believe your name’s
Sawyer.”

“Your belief is well founded,” replied
Quincy. “I regret that I do not know your
name.”

“Well, you won’t have to suffer long before
you find out,” said the fellow. “My
name’s Robert Wood, or Bob Wood for short.”

“Ah! I see,” said Quincy. “Robert
for long wood and Bob for short wood.”

Wood’s face grew redder.

“I s’pose you think that’s mighty
smart makin’ fun of folks’ names.
I guess there ain’t much doubt but what you
said what a friend of mine tells me you did.”

Quincy remarked calmly, “Well, what did your
friend say I said about you?”

By this time the loungers in and outside the store
had gathered around the two talkers. Wood seemed
encouraged and braced up by the presence of so many
friends. He walked up close to Quincy and said,
“Well, my friend told me that you said there
was but one jackass in Eastborough and he sang bass
in the quartette.”

Quincy paled a little, but replied firmly, “I
never said it, and if your friend says I did he lies
and he knows it.”

At this juncture, as if prearranged, Obadiah Strout
suddenly emerged from the grocery store.

“What’s the matter, gentlemen?”
asked Mr. Strout.

“Well,” said Wood, “I told this
young man what you said he said, and he says you’re
a liar.”

“Well,” said Strout pompously, “I
know that he said it and I have witnesses to prove
it. When you settle with him for calling you a
jackass I’ll settle with him for calling me a
liar.”

“Take your coat off, Mr. Sawyer, and get ready.
I won’t keep you waitin’ but a few moments,”
said Bob.

A jeering laugh went up from the crowd. Quincy,
turning, saw Hiram.

“Here, Hiram,” said he, “hold my
things.”

Page 37

He took off his overcoat and then his black Prince
Albert coat and passed them to Hiram. Then he
removed his hat, which he also handed to Hiram.

Turning to Wood he said, “Come right out here,
Mr. Wood; here is a place where the sun has kindly
removed the snow and we can get a good footing.”

Wood followed him, and the crowd formed a ring about
them.

“Now, Mr. Wood, or perhaps I should say Bob
Wood for short, put up your hands.”

Bob put them up in defiance of all rules governing
boxing. This was enough for Quincy; he had sized
up his man and determined to make the most of his
opportunity.

“Mr. Wood,” he said politely, “before
I hit you I am going to tell you just exactly where
I am going to strike, so you can’t blame me for
anything that may happen. I shall commence on
your right eye.”

Wood’s face grew livid; he made a rush at Quincy
as though he would fall on him and crush him.
Quincy easily eluded him, and when Wood made his second
rush at him he parried a right-hander, and before Wood
could recover, he struck him a square blow full on
his right eye. They faced each other again.

“Now, Mr. Wood,” said Quincy, “I
see you have a watch in your vest pocket. Is
it an open-faced watch?”

“S’posin’ you find out,” said
Wood, glaring at Quincy with his left eye, his right
one being closed up.

“Well, then,” remarked Quincy, “you
will be obliged to have it repaired, for I am going
to hit you just where that watch is and it may injure
it.”

Wood was more wary this time and Quincy was more scientific.
He gave Wood a left-hander in the region of the heart
which staggered him.

They faced each other for the third time.

“I regret the necessity this time, but I will
be obliged to strike you full in the face and in my
excitement may hit your nose.”

It required all of Quincy’s dexterity to avoid
the wild rushes and savage thrusts made by Wood.
But Quincy understood every one of the boxer’s
secrets and was as light and agile on his feet as a
cat. It was three minutes at least before Quincy
got the desired opening, and then he landed a blow
on Wood’s nose that sent him flat upon his back.

[Illustration: “Andthenhelanded A blowonwood’snose”]

“That’s enough,” cried the crowd,
and several friends led Wood to a seat on the platform.

Quincy turned to Strout. “Now, Mr. Strout,
I am at your service.”

“No, sir,” said Strout, “I am willing
to fight a gentleman, but I don’t fight with
no professional prize fighter like you.”
Turning to the crowd: “I know all about
this fellow. He is no lawyer at all, he is a
regular prize fighter, and down in Boston he is known
by the name of Billy Shanks.”

Quincy smiled. Turning to the crowd he said,
“The statement just made by Mr. Strout is like
his statement to Mr. Wood. The first was a lie,
the second is a lie, and the man who uttered them
is a liar. Good morning, gentlemen.”

Page 38

Quincy went to Hiram, who helped him on with his coats.
They walked along together. After they turned
the corner and got out of sight of the grocery store,
Hiram said:

“Geewhilikins! What a smasher you gave
him. I thought you said you didn’t know
nothin’ about fightin’.”

“I don’t know much,” responded Quincy.
“There are a dozen men in Boston who could do
to me just exactly what I did to Bob Wood.”

CHAPTER IX.

Mr. SawyercallsonmissPutnam.

Quincy had a double purpose in calling on Lindy; he
actually wished to see her, for they had not met since
the concert, but his principal wish was to meet a
real old-fashioned country couple. To be sure,
Deacon Mason and his wife often dropped into the vernacular,
but the Deacon was a very dignified old gentleman
and his wife was not a great talker. What he
desired was to find one of the old-fashioned style
of country women, with a tongue hung in the middle
and running at both ends. His wish was to be
gratified.

When he clanged the old brass knocker on the door,
Samanthy Green answered the call.

“Is Miss Putnam at home?” asked Quincy
politely.

“No, she ain’t,” said Samanthy,
“but Mr. and Mrs. Putnam is. They’re
allus to hum. They don’t go nowheres from
one year’s end to t’other.”

“I would like to see them,” said Quincy.

“Yes, sir,” said Samanthy, “walk
right in.”

She threw open the door of the sitting-room.
“Here’s a gentleman that wants to see
you, Mas’ Putnam. Leastwise he asked for
Lindy fust.”

Samanthy left the room, slamming the door after her.

“My name is Sawyer,” said Quincy, addressing
the old lady and gentleman who were seated in rocking
chairs. “I met your daughter at the concert
given at the Town Hall New-Year’s night.”

Mrs. Putnam said, “Glad to see ye, Mr. Sawyer;
have a chair.”

As Quincy laid his hand upon the chair, the old gentleman
called out in a voice that would have startled a bull
of Bashan, “What’s his name, Heppy?”

Mrs. Putnam answered in a shrill voice with an edge
like a knife, “Sawyer.”

“Sawyer!” yelled the man. “Any
relation to Jim Sawyer that got drunk, beat his wife,
starved his children, and finally ended up in the town
Poorhouse?”

Quincy shook his head and replied, “I think
not. I don’t live here; I live in Boston.”

“Du tell,” said Mrs. Putnam. “How
long you been here?”

Quincy replied that he arrived two days after Christmas.

“Where be you stoppin’?” asked Mrs.
Putnam.

Quincy answered, “I am boarding at Deacon Mason’s.”

“He’s a nice old gentleman,” said
Mrs. Putnam, “and Mrs. Mason’s good as
they make ’em. Her daughter Huldy’s
a pert young thing, she’s pretty and she knows
it.”

Quincy remarked that he thought Miss Mason was a very
nice young lady.

Page 39

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Putnam, “you
young fellers never look more than skin deep.
Now the way she trifles with that young ’Zekiel
Pettengill I think’s shameful. They ust
to have a spat every week about something but they
allus made it up. But I heard Lindy say that after
you come here, ’Zeke he got huffy and Huldy
she got independent, and they hain’t spoke to
each other nigh on two weeks.”

This was a revelation to Quincy, but he was to hear
more about it very soon.

“How long be you goin’ to stay, Mr. Sawyer?”

“I haven’t decided,” said Quincy.

“What’s your business?” persisted
Mrs. Putnam.

“I am a lawyer,” replied Quincy.

Mrs. Putnam looked at him inquiringly and said, “Be
n’t you rather young for a lawyer? How
old be you, anyway?”

Quincy decided to take a good humored part in his
cross examination and said without a smile, “I
am twenty-three years, two months, sixteen days old.”

“Be you?” exclaimed Mrs. Putnam.
“I shouldn’t have said you were a day
over nineteen.”

Quincy never felt his youth so keenly before.
He determined to change the conversation.

“Did you attend the concert, Mrs. Putnam?”

“No,” said she. “Pa and me
don’t go out much; he’s deefer’n
a stone post and I’ve had the rheumatiz so bad
in my knees for the last five years that I can’t
walk without crutches;” and she pointed to a
pair that lay on the floor beside her chair.

During this conversation old Mr. Putnam had been eying
Quincy very keenly. He blurted out, “He’s
a chip of the old block, Heppy; he looks just as Jim
did when he fust came to this town. Did yer say
yer had an Uncle Jim?”

Quincy shook his head.

Mrs. Putnam turned to her husband and yelled, “Now
you shet up, Silas, and don’t bother the young
man. Jim Sawyer ain’t nothin’ to be
proud of, and I don’t blame the young man for
not ownin’ up even if Jim is his uncle.”

Quincy made another attempt to change the conversation.
“Your daughter is a very fine singer, Mrs. Putnam.”

“Well, I s’pose so,” said she; “there’s
been enough money spent on her to make suthin’
of her. As for me I don’t like this folderol
singin’. Why, when she ust to be practisin’
I had to go up in the attic or else stuff cotton in
my ears. But my son, Jehoiakim Jones Putnam, he
sot everythin’ by Lucinda, and there wasn’t
anythin’ she wanted that she couldn’t
have. He’s dead now, but he left more’n
a hundred thousand dollars, that he made speculatin’.”

“Then your daughter will be quite an heiress
one of these days, Mrs. Putnam?”

She answered, “She won’t get none of my
money. Jehoiakim left her all of his’n,
but before she got it she had to sign a paper, a wafer,
I believe they call it, if you’re a lawyer you
ought to know what it was, givin’ up all claim
on my money. I made my will and the girl who’ll
get it needs it and will make good use of it.”

Page 40

Quincy determined to get even with Mrs. Putnam for
the questioning she put him through, so he said, “Did
you make your money speculating, Mrs. Putnam?”

“No,” said she, “pa made it by hard
work on the farm; but he gave it all to me more’n
fifteen year ago, and he hasn’t got a cent to
his name. He’s just as bad off as Jim Sawyer.
I feed him and clothe him and shall have to bury him.
I guess it seems kinder odd to ye, so I reckon I’ll
have to tell ye the hull story. I’ve told
it a dozen times, but I guess it’ll bear tellin’
once more. You see my husband here, Silas Putnam,
was brought up religis and he’s allus been a
churchgoin’ man. We were both Methodists,
and everythin’ went all right till one day a
Second Advent preacher came along, and then things
went all wrong. He canoodled my husband into
believin’ that the end of the world was comin’
and it was his duty to give all his property away,
so he could stand clean handed afore the Lord.
My dander riz when I heerd them makin’ their
plans, but afore my husband got deef he was great
on argifyin’ and argumentin’, and I didn’t
stand much show against two on ’em; but when
Silas told me he was goin’ to give his property
away I sot up my Ebenezer, and I says, ’Silas
Putnam, if you gives your property to any one you gives
it to me.’ So after a long tussle it was
settled that way and the lawyers drew up the papers.
The night afore the world was goin’ to end he
prayed all night. You can imagine with that air
voice of his’n I didn’t sleep a wink.
When mornin’ came—­it was late in October
and the air was pretty sharp—­Silas stopped
prayin’ and put on his white robe, which was
a shirt of hisn’t I pieced out so it came down
to his feet, and takin’ a tin trumpet that he
bought over to Eastborough Centre, he went out, climbed
up on the barn, sot down on the ridgepole and waited
for Kingdom Come. He sot there and tooted all
mornin’ and ’spected the angel Gabriel
would answer back. He sot there and tooted all
the arternoon till the cows come home and the chickens
went to roost. I had three good square meals
that day, but Silas didn’t get a bite. ’Bout
six o’clock I did think of takin’ him
out some doughnuts, but then I decided if he was goin’
up so soon it was no use a wastin’ em, so I put
’em back in the pantry. He sot there and
tooted all the evenin’ till the moon come up
and the stars were all out, and then he slid down off’n
the barn, and barked both his shins doin’ it,
threw his trumpet into the pig pen, come into the
house and huddled up close to the fire. He didn’t
say nothin’ for a spell, but finally says he,
’I guess, Heppy, that feller made a mistake
in figurin’ out the date.’ ‘I
guess, Silas,’ says I, ’that you’ve
made an all-fired fool of yerself. And if you
don’t go to bed quick and take a rum sweat,
I shall be a widder in a very short time,’ He
was sick for more’n three weeks, but I pulled
him through by good nussin’, and the fust day
he was able to set up, I says to him, ’Now,

Page 41

Silas Putnam, when I married ye forty-five year ago
I promised to obey ye, ye was allus a good perwider
and I don’t perpose to see yer want for nothin’,
but ye have got to hold up yer right hand and swear
to obey me for the rest of yer nateral life,’
and he did it. He got well, and he is tougher’n
a biled owl, if he is eighty-six. But the cold
sorter settled in his ears, and he’s deef as
an adder. Ef angel Gabriel blew his horn now
I’m afeared Silas wouldn’t hear him.”

During this long story Quincy had listened without
a smile on his face, but the manner in which the last
remark was made was too much for him and he burst
into a loud laugh. Silas, who had been eying him,
also gave a loud laugh and said with his ponderous
voice, “I guess Heppy’s been tellin’
ye about my goin’ up.”

Quincy laughed again and Mrs. Putnam took part.
He arose, told Mr. and Mrs. Putnam he had enjoyed
his visit very much, was very sorry Miss Putnam was
not at home, and said he would call again, with their
kind permission.

“Oh, drop in any time,” said Mrs. Putnam;
“we’re allus to hum. You seem to
be a nice young man, but you’re too young to
marry. Why, Lindy’s twenty-eight, and I
tell her she don’t know enough to get married
yet. Ef you’ll take a bit of advice from
an old woman, let me say, ’less you mean to
marry the girl yourself, you’d better git away
from Deacon Mason’s.”

And with this parting shot ringing in his ears, he
left the house and made his way homeward.

In half an hour after Quincy’s departure, Lindy
Putnam entered the sitting-room and facing her mother
said with a voice full of passion, “Samanthy
says Mr. Sawyer called to see me.”

Mrs. Putnam answered, “Well, ef ye wanted to
see him so much why didn’t ye stay to hum?”

Lindy continued, “Well, I have told you a dozen
times that when people come to see me that you are
not to invite them in.”

“Wall, I didn’t,” said Mrs. Putnam.
“When he found you wuz out he said he wanted
to see pa and me, and he stayed here more’n an
hour.”

“Yes,” said Lindy, “no doubt you
told him all about pa’s turning Second Advent
and how much money I had, and you have killed all my
chances.”

“Well, I guess not,” said Mrs. Putnam.
“I told him about your brother leavin’
yer all his money, and I guess that won’t drive
him away.”

Lindy continued, “Money don’t count with
him; they say his father is worth more than a million
dollars.”

Mrs. Putnam answered, “Wall, I s’pose
there’s a dozen or so to divide it among.”

Lindy said, “Did you tell him who you were going
to leave your money to?”

“No, I didn’t,” replied Mrs. Putnam.
“But I did tell him that you wouldn’t
get a cent of it.”

Lindy sobbed, “I think it is a shame, mother.
I like him better than any young man I have ever met,
and now after what you have told me I sha’n’t
see him again. I have a good mind to leave you
for good and all and go to Boston to live.”

Page 42

“Wall, you’re your own mistress,”
replied Mrs. Putnam, “and I’m my own mistress
and pa’s. Come to think on’t, there
was one thing I said to him that might sot him against
yer.”

“What was that?” demanded Lindy fiercely.

“Wall,” said Mrs. Putnam, “he said
he was twenty-three, and I sort a told him incidentally
you was twenty-eight. You know yer thirty, and
p’raps he might object to ye on account of yer
age.”

This was too much for Lindy. She rushed out of
the room and up to her chamber, where she threw herself
on her bed in a passion of tears.

“It’s too bad,” she cried.
“I will see him again, I will find some way,
and I’ll win him yet, even if I am twenty-eight.”

Two days afterwards Hiram told Mandy that he heard
down to Hill’s grocery that that city chap had
two strings to his bow now. He was courting the
Deacon’s daughter, but had been up to see Mr.
and Mrs. Putnam to find out how much money Lindy had
in her own right, and to see if there was any prospect
of getting anything out of the old folks.

CHAPTER X.

Villagegossip.

After supper on the day he had been visiting Mr. and
Mrs. Putnam, Quincy went to his room and wrote a long
letter to his father, inquiring if he ever had an
uncle by the name of James Sawyer. Before retiring
he sat and thought over the experiences of the past
fortnight since his arrival in Eastborough, but the
most of his thoughts were given to the remark made
by Mrs. Putnam about his leaving Deacon Mason’s.
He had been uniformly polite and to a slight degree
attentive to Miss Mason. The Deacon’s horse
was a slow one, and so on several occasions he had
hired a presentable rig and a good stepper over to
Eastborough Centre, and had taken Miss Mason out to
ride. He reflected now, as he had never done
before, that of course the whole town knew this, and
the thought came home to him strongly that by so doing
he might have inflicted a triple injury upon Miss
Mason, Mr. Pettingill, and himself. He was not
in love with Miss Mason, nor Miss Putnam; they were
both pretty girls, and in the city it was the custom
to be attentive to pretty girls without regard to
consequences.

He had asked Miss Mason to go riding with him the
next day, but he inwardly resolved that it would be
the last time he would take her, and he was in doubt
whether to go back to the city at once or go to some
other town and board at a hotel, or look around and
find some other place in Eastborough. One consideration
kept him from leaving Eastborough; he knew that if
he did so the singing-master would claim that he had
driven him out of town, and although he had a hearty
contempt for the man, he was too high spirited to leave
town and give the people any reason to think that
Strout’s antipathy to him had anything to do
with it.

Finally a bright idea struck him. Why hadn’t
he thought of it before? He would go and see
Uncle Ike, state the case frankly and ask him to let
him live with him for a month. He could bunk in
the kitchen, and he preferred Uncle Ike’s conversation
to that of any other of the male sex whom he had met
in Eastborough. With this idea firmly fixed in
his mind he retired and slept peacefully.

Page 43

While Quincy was debating with himself and coming
to the conclusion previously mentioned, another conversation,
in which his name often occurred, took place in Deacon
Mason’s kitchen.

The old couple were seated by the old-fashioned fireplace,
in which a wood fire was burning. The stove had
superseded the hanging crane and the tin oven for
cooking purposes, but Deacon Mason clung to the old-fashioned
fireplace for heat and light. The moon was high
and its rays streamed in through the windows, the
curtains of which had not been drawn.

For quite a while they sat in silence, then Deacon
Mason said, “There is something I want to speak
about, mother, and yet I don’t want to.
I know there is nothing to it and nothing likely to
come of it, but the fact is, mother, Huldy’s
bein’ talked about down to the Corner, ’cause
Mr. Sawyer is boardin’ here. You know she
goes out ridin’ with him, which ain’t
no harm, and she has a sort o’ broken with ’Zekiel,
for which I am sorry, for ’Zekiel is one of
the likely young men of the town.”

“So I do, father,” said Mrs. Mason, “and
if you don’t meddle, things will come out all
right. Mr. Sawyer don’t care nothing for
Huldy, and I don’t think she cares anything
for him. He will be going back to the city in
a little while and then things will be all right again.”

“Well,” said the Deacon, “I think
Huldy better stop goin’ out to ride with him
anyway; she is high spirited, and if I tell her not
to go she’ll want to know why.”

“But,” broke in Mrs. Mason, “ef
you tell him won’t he want to know why?”

“Well, perhaps,” said the Deacon, “but
I will speak to him anyway.”

The next morning after breakfast Deacon Mason asked
Mr. Sawyer to step into the parlor, and remarking
that when he had anything to say he always said it
right out, he asked Quincy if he was on good terms
with Mr. ’Zekiel Pettengill.

“I don’t know,” said Quincy.
“I don’t know of anything that I have done
at which he could take offence, but he keeps away from
me, and when I do meet him and speak to him, a ‘yes’
or ‘no’ is all I get in reply.”

“Haven’t you any idea what makes him treat
you so?” asked the Deacon.

Quincy flushed.

“Yes, Mr. Mason, I think I do know, but it never
entered my mind until late yesterday afternoon, and
then it was called to my attention by a stranger.
I am glad I have this chance to speak to you, Mr. Mason,
for while I have had a very enjoyable time here, I
have decided to find another boarding place, and I
shall leave just as soon as I make the necessary arrangements.”

The Deacon was a little crestfallen at having the
business taken out of his hands so quickly, and saying
he was very sorry to have the young man go, he sought
his wife and told her everything was fixed up and that
Mr. Sawyer was going away.

Quincy started to leave the house by the front door;
in the hallway he met Huldy, who had just come down
stairs. He had asked her to go to ride with him
that day, and as he looked at her pretty face he vowed
to himself that he would not be deprived of that pleasure.
It could do no harm, for it would be their last ride
together and probably their last meeting.

Page 44

He said, “Good morning, Miss Mason,” and
then added with that tone which the society belle
considers a matter of course, but which is so pleasing
to the village maiden, “You look charming this
morning, Miss Mason. I don’t think our
ride to-day could make your cheeks any redder than
they are now.” Huldy blushed, making her
cheeks a still deeper crimson. “I will
be here at one o’clock with the team,”
said Quincy. “Will you be ready?”

“Yes,” answered Huldy softly.

Quincy raised his hat, and a moment later he was on
his way to Eastborough Centre.

He walked briskly and thought he would stop at Uncle
Ike’s and carry out the resolution he had made
the night before, but as he turned up the path that
led to the house he saw a man standing on the steps
talking to Uncle Ike, who stood in the doorway.
The young man was Ezekiel Pettengill. Shakespeare
says,

“’Tis conscience
that makes cowards of us all,”

and although Quincy at heart was a gentleman, he also
knew it was not quite right for him to take Miss Mason
out riding again under the circumstances; but young
men are often stubborn and Quincy felt a little stiff-necked
and rebellious that morning.

He reached Eastborough Centre, mailed his father the
letter relating to Jim Sawyer, and going to the stable,
picked out the best rig it could supply. He always
had the same horse. It was somewhat small in size,
but a very plump, white mare; she was a good roadster
and it was never necessary to touch her with the whip.
Shake it in the stock and she would not forget it
for the next two miles. The stable keeper told
with much unction how two fellows hired her to go
from Eastborough Centre to Montrose. On their
way home they had drunk quite freely at the latter
place, and thought they would touch the mare up with
the whip; they were in an open team and the result
was that she left them at different points along the
road and reached home with no further impediment to
her career than the shafts and the front wheels.

Instead of coming back by the main road which led
by Uncle Ike’s, Quincy went through by what
was called The Willows, which increased the distance
a couple of miles. Nevertheless, it lacked five
minutes of one o’clock when he drove up to Deacon
Mason’s front door.

Huldy was all dressed for the occasion, and with a
“Good-by, mother,” to Mrs. Mason, who
was in the kitchen, was out the front door, helped
into the team, and they were off just as the startled
matron reached the parlor window. Mrs. Mason
returned to the kitchen and at that moment the Deacon
came in from the barn.

The Deacon was a good Christian man and didn’t
swear, but he was evidently thinking deeply.
Finally he said, “Well, mother, we must make
the best of it. I’ll help him find a boarding
place if he don’t get one by to-morrow.”

Page 45

They had a splendid drive. The air was cool,
but not biting, the sun was warm, the roads had dried
up since the recent thaw, which had removed the snow,
with the exception of some patches in the fields, and
the high-topped buggy rolled smoothly over the ground.

They passed through the little square in front of
Hill’s grocery, and as luck would have it, Professor
Strout was standing on the platform smoking a cigar.
Huldy smiled and nodded to him, and Quincy, with true
politeness, followed a city custom and raised his hat,
but the Professor did not return the bow, nor the
salute, but turning on his heel walked into the grocery
store.

“Professor Strout is not very polite, is he,
Mr. Sawyer?” asked Huldy, laughing.

Quincy replied, looking straight ahead, “He
has never learned the first letter in the alphabet
of the art.”

Quincy had a disagreeable duty to perform. He
enjoyed Miss Huldy’s company, but she was not
the sort of girl he could love enough to make his
wife. Then the thought came to him, supposing
she should fall in love with him; that was not impossible,
and it must be prevented.

When they were about half a mile from Mason’s
Corner, on their way home, Quincy realized that he
could not put the matter off any longer.

Just as he was going to speak to her she turned to
him and said, “Let me drive the rest of the
way home, Mr. Sawyer.”

“Oh, no,” replied Quincy, “I think
I had better keep the reins. You know I am responsible
for you until you are safe at home.”

Huldy pouted. “You think I can’t
drive,” said she, “I have driven horses
all my life. Please let me, Mr. Sawyer,”
she added coaxingly. And she took the reins from
his hands.

“Well,” said Quincy, “you are now
responsible for me and I shall expect you to be very
careful.”

They drove a short distance in silence; then Quincy
turned to her and said abruptly, “This is our
last ride together, Miss Mason.”

“Why?” inquired she with an astonished
look in her face.

“I am going to leave your very pleasant home
to-morrow,” said Quincy.

The girl’s cheeks paled perceptibly.

“Are you going back to Boston?” she asked.

“No, not for some time,” Quincy replied,
“but I have had some advice given me and I think
it best to follow it.”

“You have been advised to leave my father’s
house,” said she, holding the reins listlessly
in her hand.

Quincy said, “You won’t be offended if
I tell you the whole truth?”

“No; why should I?” asked Huldy.

As she said this she gathered up the reins and gave
them a sharp pull. The white mare understood
this to be a signal to do some good travelling and
she started off at a brisk trot.

Quincy said, “I was told yesterday by a friend
that if I was not a marrying man they would advise
me to leave Deacon Mason’s house at once.”

The blood shot into Huldy’s face at once.
He was not a marrying man and consequently he was
going to leave. He did not care for her or he
would stay. Then another thought struck her.
Perhaps he was going away because he was afraid she
would fall in love with him.

Page 46

As the Deacon had said, she was high spirited, and
for an instant she was filled with indignation.
She shut her eyes, and her heart seemed to stop its
beating. She heard Quincy’s voice, “Look
out for the curve, Miss Mason.” She dropped
the left rein and mechanically gave the right one
a strong, sharp pull with both hands. Quincy grasped
the reins, but it was too late.

Huldy’s pull on the right rein had thrown the
horse almost at right angles to the buggy. The
steep hill and sharp curve in the road did the rest.
The buggy stood for an instant on two wheels, then
fell on its side with a crash, taking the horse off
her feet at the same time.

Huldy pitched forward as the buggy was falling, striking
her left arm upon the wheel, and then fell into the
road. Quincy gave a quick leap over the dasher,
falling on the prostrate horse, and grasping her by
the head, pressed it to the ground. The mare
lay motionless. Quincy rushed to Miss Mason and
lifted her to her feet, but found her a dead weight
in his arms. He looked in her face. She
had evidently fainted. Her left arm hung by her
side in a helpless sort of way; he touched it lightly
between the elbow and shoulder. It was broken.
Grasping her in his arms he ran to the back door and
burst into the kitchen where Mrs. Mason was at work.

Quincy said in quick, excited tones, “There
has been an accident, Mrs. Mason, and your daughter’s
arm is broken; she has also fainted. I will take
her right to her room and put her on her bed.
You can bring her out of that.” Suiting
the action to the word, he took Huldy upstairs, saying,
“I will go for the doctor at once.”

Then he dashed down the stairs and out of the front
door; as he reached the team he found Hiram standing
beside it, his eyes wide open with astonishment.

How it was done Quincy could never tell afterwards,
but in a very short time the buggy was righted, the
mare on her feet and the harness adjusted. Hiram
took off his cap and began dusting the mare, whose
white coat showed the dust very plainly.

“Where does the nearest doctor live, Hiram?”
asked Quincy.

“Second house up the road you just come down,”
said Hiram. “The folks say he don’t
know much, anyway.”

“Well, you get him here as quick as possible,”
said Quincy. “I am going to Eastborough
Centre to telegraph for a surgeon and a trained nurse.
Can you remember that?”

Quincy passed him a dollar bill.

Hiram winked and said, “I guess I can,”
and darted off up the hill.

Quincy sprang into the team and the white mare dashed
forward at full speed. As he reached the Pettengill
house he saw Ezekiel standing at the front gate.
With difficulty he pulled the mare up, for she was
greatly excited.

Page 47

“Mr. Pettengill,” said he, “there
has been a serious accident. Miss Mason has been
thrown from her carriage and her left arm is broken.
I sent Hiram for a doctor and I am on my way to Eastborough
to telegraph to Boston for a surgeon and a nurse.
I shall not return to-night. Go up to the Deacon’s
and stay with her.”

As he said this the mare gave a bound forward and
she never slackened pace until Eastborough Centre
was reached.

Quincy sent his telegram and returned the injured
buggy and the horse to the stable keeper, telling
him to have it repaired and he would pay the bill.
He arranged to have a driver and a four-seated team
ready on the arrival of the train bearing the doctor
and the nurse. In about an hour he received a
telegram that they would leave on the 6.05 express
and would reach Eastborough Centre at 7.15.

They arrived, and the hired driver, doctor, and nurse
started for Mason’s Corner.

The last train to Boston left at 9.20. Ten minutes
before that hour the team returned with the doctor.

“She is all right,” he said. “Everything
has been done for her, and the other doctor will write
me when my services are needed again. Good night.”

The train dashed in and the doctor sped back to Boston.

Quincy had engaged a room at the hotel, and he at
once retired to it, but not to sleep. He passed
the most uncomfortable night that had ever come to
him.

The next afternoon Hiram told Mandy that he heard
Professor Strout say to Robert Wood that he guessed
that “accident would never have occurred if
that city chap hadn’t been trying to drive hoss
with one hand.”

Mandy said, “That Strout is a mean old thing,
anyway, and if you tell me another thing that he says,
I’ll fill your mouth full o’ soft soap,
or my name isn’t Mandy Skinner.”

CHAPTER XI.

Somesadtidings.

The morning of the accident, when Quincy saw Ezekiel
Pettengill standing on the steps of Uncle Ike’s
house, Ezekiel was the bearer of some sad tidings.

He recognized Quincy as the latter started to come
up the path, and saw him retrace his steps, and naturally
thought, as most men would, that the reason Quincy
did not come in was because he did not wish to meet
him.

“Who was you looking after?” asked Uncle
Ike, as Ezekiel entered the room and closed the door.

“I think it was Mr. Sawyer,” replied Ezekiel,
“on his way to Eastborough Centre.”

“That Mr. Sawyer,” said Uncle Ike, “is
a very level-headed young man. He called on me
once and I like him very much. Do you know him,
’Zeke?”

“Yes, I know who he is,” Ezekiel answered,
“but I have never been introduced to him.
He nods and I nod, or I say, ‘good mornin’,’
and he says, ‘good mornin’.’”

“Don’t you go up to Deacon Mason’s
as much as you used to, ’Zeke?” asked
Uncle Ike. “I thought Huldy and you were
going to make a match of it.”

Page 48

Ezekiel replied, “Well, to be honest, Uncle
Ike, Huldy and me had a little tiff, and I haven’t
seen her to speak to her for more than three weeks,
but I guess it will all come out all right some day.”

“Well, you’re on the right track, ’Zeke,”
said Uncle Ike. “Do all your fighting before
you get married. But what brings you down here
so early in the morning?”

“No,” said Uncle Ike, “and I can’t
understand it. She has always written to me once
a fortnight, and it’s a month now since I heard
from her, and she has sent me a book every Christmas
until this last one.”

“She has been very sick, Uncle Ike,” said
Ezekiel. “She was taken down about the
middle of December and was under the doctor’s
care for three weeks.”

“Is she better?” asked Uncle Ike eagerly.

“Yes, she is up again,” said Ezekiel,
“but she is very weak; but that ain’t
the worst of it,” he added.

“She wouldn’t let them,” said Ezekiel.
“If it hadn’t been for what the eye doctor
told her she wouldn’t have telegraphed to me
what she did.”

“Well, what’s the matter with her?”
cried Uncle Ike almost fiercely.

“Well, Uncle Ike,” said Ezekiel, and the
tears stood in his eyes as he said it, “our
Allie is almost blind, but the eye doctor says she
will get better, but it will take a very long time.
She has had to give up her job, and I am going to
Boston again to-morrow to bring her home to the old
house.”

“What’s the matter with her eyes?”
asked Uncle Ike.

“He called them cataracts,” said Ezekiel,
“or something like that.”

Uncle Ike sat down in his armchair and thought for
a minute or two.

“Yes,” he said, “I know what they
are; I have read all about them, and I know people
who have had them. One was a schoolmate of mine.
He was a mighty smart fellow and I felt sorry for
him and used to help him out in his studies.
I heard he had his eyes operated on and recovered his
sight.”

“Well, the doctor she has,” said Ezekiel,
“is agin operations. He says they can be
cured without them. She drops something in her
eyes and blows something in them, and then the tears
come, and then she sits quietly with her hands folded,
thinking, I suppose, till the time comes to use the
medicine again.”

“What can I do to help you?” asked Uncle
Ike. “You know I always loved Alice even
better than I did my own children, because she is more
lovable, I suppose. Now, ’Zeke, if you want
any money for doctor’s bills or anything else,
I am ready to do everything in the world I can for
Alice. Did she ask after me, ’Zeke?”

“Almost the first thing she said was, ‘How
is dear old Uncle Ike?’ and then she said how
glad she would be to get back to Eastborough, where
she could have you to talk to. ‘I am lonesome
now,’ she said, ’I cannot write nor read,
and the time passes so slowly with no one to talk to.’”

Page 49

“But the poor dear girl can’t walk down
here to see me,” said Uncle Ike.

“That’s just what I came to see you about,”
said Ezekiel. “The greatest favor you can
do Alice and me is to come up to the old house and
live with us for a while and be company for Alice.
You can have the big front room that father and mother
used to have, and Alice’s room, you know, is
just side of that. In a little while I shall have
to be busy on the farm and poor Alice—­”

“Don’t talk any more about it, ’Zeke,”
said Uncle Ike. “Of course I’ll come.
She will do me as much good as I’ll do her.
Send down the boys with the team to-morrow noon and
I’ll be all settled by the time you get back.”

“I’ll do it,” said Ezekiel.
“It is very good of you. Uncle Ike, to give
up your little home here that you like so much and
come to live with us. I know you wouldn’t
do it for anybody but Alice, and I’ll leave her
to thank you when she gets down here.”

Uncle Ike and Ezekiel shook hands warmly.

“Don’t you need any money, ’Zeke?”
asked Uncle Ike.

“No,” replied Ezekiel. “Alice
wouldn’t let me pay out a cent; she had some
money saved up in the bank and she insisted on paying
for everything herself. She wouldn’t come
home till I promised ’her I’d let her
pay her board when she got able to work again.”

“She always was independent,” said Uncle
Ike, “and that was one reason why I liked her.
But more than that, she is the fairest-minded and
best-tempered woman I ever met in my life, and I have
seen a good many.”

Ezekiel shook hands again with Uncle Ike, and then
started off briskly with a much lighter heart than
he had before the interview. Reaching home he
astonished Mandy Skinner by telling her that he was
going to bring his sister down from Boston and that
Uncle Ike was coming to live with them for a while.

“My Lord!” cried Mandy, “and do
you expect me to do all this extra work?”

“I don’t expect nothing,” said Ezekiel.
“You can get old Mrs. Crowley to come and do
the heavy work, and I guess you can get along.
You allus said you liked her, she was such a nice
washer and ironer. She can have the little room
over the ell, and I’ll give you a dollar a week
extra for your trouble. Do you think you can
get along, Mandy?”

Mandy answered, “I know I can with your sister
all right, but if your Uncle Ike comes out here in
the kitchen and tells me how to roast meat and make
pies, as he did once, there will be trouble, and he
may have to do all the cooking.”

Ezekiel smiled, but said nothing, and went off upstairs
to look at the two rooms that were to be occupied
by Uncle Ike and poor Allie.

CHAPTER XII.

Lookingfor A boardingplace.

Page 50

When Quincy awoke in his room at the hotel on the
morning after the accident he found to his great surprise
that it was nine o’clock. He arose and
dressed quickly, and after a light breakfast started
off towards Uncle Ike’s. Reaching the house
he was astonished at the sight that met his gaze.
Everything was out of place. The bed was down
and the bedding tied up in bundles; the books had
been taken from the bookcase and had been piled up
on the table. There was no fire in the stove,
and the funnel was laid upon the top of it. Quincy
had remembered that he had seen a pile of soot on
the ground near the steps as he came up them.
All of Uncle Ike’s cooking utensils were packed
in a soap box which stood near the stove.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Pettengill, are
you going to move?” asked Quincy.

“For a time at least,” replied Uncle Ike.
“’Zeke Pettengill’s sister has been
struck blind and he is going to bring her down home
this afternoon and I am going to live with them and
be company for her. I always thought as much
of Alice as if she was my own daughter, and now she
is in trouble, her old uncle isn’t going back
on her. It isn’t Ike Pettengill’s
way.”

“Have you seen ’Zekiel Pettengill this
morning?” asked Quincy.

“No, nor I didn’t expect to,” replied
Uncle Ike. “I suppose he went to Boston
on the nine o’clock train and will be back on
the three o’clock express.”

“Mr. Pettengill,” said Quincy, “can
you give me fifteen minutes’ time for a talk?”

“Well,” said Uncle Ike, looking at his
watch, “it will be half an hour before Cobb’s
twins will be down here with the team, and I might
as well listen to you as sit around and do nothing.
They are coming down again by and by to get the chickens.
I have a good mind to set the house on fire and burn
it up. If I don’t, I suppose some tramp
will, and if I need another house like it, thank the
Lord I’ve got money enough to build it.”

“No, don’t burn it up, Mr. Pettengill,”
said Quincy. “Let it to me. I am around
looking for a boarding place myself.”

“Why, what’s the matter, what made you
leave Deacon Mason’s?”

“That’s what I want to tell you,”
said Quincy. “Time is limited and I’ll
make my story short, but you are a friend of my father’s,
and I want you to understand the whole business.”

“Why, what have you been up to?” asked
Uncle Ike, opening his eyes.

“Nothing,” said Quincy, “and that’s
the trouble. When I went to Deacon Mason’s
nobody told me that his daughter was engaged to Ezekiel
Pettengill.”

“And she isn’t,” interjected Uncle
Ike.

“Well,” said Quincy, “they have
been keeping company together, but I didn’t
know it. Miss Mason is a pretty girl and a very
pleasant one. Time hung heavily on my hands and
I naturally paid her some attentions; gave her flowers
and candy, and took her out to ride, but I never thought
of falling in love with her, and I am not conceited
enough to think she is in love with me.”

Page 51

“Well, I don’t know,” said Uncle
Ike reflectively. “Perhaps she has heard
your father was worth a million dollars.”

“No, I don’t believe that,” said
Quincy. “Miss Mason is too true and honest
a girl to marry a man simply for his money.”

“Well, I think you are right there,” remarked
Uncle Ike.

“New Year’s night,” said Quincy,
“at the concert in the Town Hall, Strout, the
singing teacher, got down on me because Miss Putnam
and I received so much applause for singing a duet
together. Then I broke his heart by whistling
a tune for the girls and boys, and then again he doesn’t
like me because I am from the city! he hired a fellow
to whip me, but the fellow didn’t know how to
box and I knocked him out very quickly. Now that
Strout can’t hurt me any other way he has gone
to work making up lies, and the village is full of
gossip about Miss Mason and me. Deacon Mason
was going to talk to me about it, but I told him yesterday
morning that I was going to get another boarding place,
and I should have done so yesterday but for a very
unfortunate accident.”

“Accident?” said Uncle Ike; “why,
you seem to be all right.”

“I wish I had been the victim,” said Quincy,
“instead of Miss Mason. I took her out
riding yesterday and the buggy got tipped over right
in front of Deacon Mason’s house, and Miss Mason
had her left arm broken above the elbow. I have
done all I could to atone for my carelessness, but
I am afraid ’Zeke Pettengill will never forgive
me. I wish, Mr. Pettengill, you would make him
understand my position in the matter. I would
like to be good friends with him, for I have nothing
against him. He is the most gentlemanly young
man that I have seen in the town. I value his
good opinion and I want him to understand that I haven’t
intentionally done anything to wrong or injure him.”

Uncle Ike covered his eyes with his hands and mused
for a few minutes; then he finally said, “Mr.
Sawyer, I have got an idea. That fellow, Strout,
thinks he runs this town, and it would tickle him to
death if he thought he made things uncomfortable for
you. Then, again, I happen to know that he is
sweet on Huldy Mason himself, and he would do all he
could to widen the breach between ’Zeke and her.
You see, he isn’t but forty himself, and he
wouldn’t mind the difference in ages at all.
Now, my plan is this.” Uncle Ike looked
out the window and said, “Here comes Cobb’s
twins with the team. Now we will take, my things
up to the house, then you take the team and go up
to Deacon Mason’s and get your trunk and bring
it down to Pettengill’s house. You will
be my guest for to-night, anyway, and if I don’t
make things right with ’Zeke so you can stay
there, I’ll fix it anyway so you can stay till
you get a place to suit you. Now don’t
say no, Mr. Sawyer. Your father and I are old
friends and he will sort o’ hold me responsible
for your good treatment. I won’t take no
for an answer. If you have no objections, Mr.
Sawyer, I wish you would keep your eye on those books
when they are put into the team, for those Cobb boys
handle everything as though it was a rock or a tree
stump.” And Uncle Ike, taking his kerosene
lamp in one hand and his looking glass in the other,
cried, “Come in,” as one of the Cobb boys
knocked on the door.

Page 52

CHAPTER XIII.

A visittothevictim.

It was not until Quincy had reached the Pettengill
house and helped Uncle Ike get his things in order,
that he finally decided to accept Uncle Ike’s
offer. If he went to Eastborough Centre to live
at the hotel, he knew Strout would consider he had
won a victory. He had thought of going to Mr.
and Mrs. Putnam about a room and board, but then he
remembered Lindy, and said to himself that Miss Putnam
was a pretty girl and it would be the same old story
over again. Then he thought, “There won’t
be any danger here with a blind girl and Mandy Skinner,
and if Uncle Ike can arrange matters it will be the
best thing I can do.”

And so he drove up to Deacon Mason’s with Cobb’s
twins, saw Mrs. Mason, went upstairs and packed his
trunk quickly, and the Cobb boys drove away with it
to his new, though perhaps only temporary, lodgings.

When Quincy went downstairs, Mrs. Mason was in the
parlor, and she beckoned to him to come in. He
entered and closed the door.

“I want to speak to you a few minutes,”
said she, “and I want to tell you first I don’t
blame you a bit. I know you told ’Zeke Pettengill
that the tip-over was all your carelessness, but Huldy
says it ain’t so. She said she was driving,
though you didn’t want her to, and the accident
was all her fault. Now, I believe my daughter
tells the truth, and the Deacon thinks so too.”

“Well, Mrs. Mason,” said Quincy, “what
your daughter says is partly true, but I am still
to blame for allowing her to drive a horse with which
she was not acquainted.”

“That warn’t the trouble, Mr. Sawyer,”
said Mrs. Mason. “Huldy told me the whole
truth. You said something to her about going away.
She had heard what the village gossips were saying.
Huldy’s got a high temper and she was so mad
that she got flustrated, and that’s what caused
all the trouble. I like you, Mr. Sawyer, and
Huldy likes you. She says you have allus been
a perfect gentleman, and the Deacon now is awful sorry
you are going, but I hope you will come and see us
often while you stay at Mason’s Corner.”

“I certainly shall, Mrs. Mason,” replied
Quincy. “How is Miss Mason?”

“Oh, she is fust rate,” said the Deacon’s
wife. “That doctor from the city fixed
her arm all up in what he called a jacket, and that
nurse that you sent just seems to know what Huldy
wants before she can ask for it I hear them nurses
are awful expensive, and I don’t think she better
stay but a day or two longer.”

“She can’t leave till the surgeon comes
from Boston and says she can go,” he remarked,
thinking this was the easiest way to get out of it.
“May I see Miss Mason?” he added.

“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Mason.
“She is in the front chamber. We moved
her in there ’cause there is a fireplace in the
room and the nurse objected to the wood stove that
Huldy had in her room. She said it was either
too hot or too cold, and that Huldy must have an even
temperature.”

Page 53

As Quincy entered the room Huldy looked up and a faint
smile lighted her face. Her usually rosy cheeks
showed only a faint touch of pink. The helpless
left arm, in its plaster of paris jacket, rested on
the outside of the white quilt, the fingers on her
little hand projecting beyond the covering.

Quincy advanced to the bedside and took a vacant chair.
The nurse was sitting by the window. She glanced
up at him and at Mrs. Mason, who followed close behind
him, but continued the reading of her book.

Quincy said lightly, as he reached over and took the
right hand and gave it a little shake, “You’re
not shaking hands with the left, Miss Mason.”

“No,” said Huldy, “I wish I could
shake it, but nurse says it will have to stay on for
two or three weeks, and it is so heavy, Mr. Sawyer.”

Mrs. Mason went to the nurse and whispered to her,
“Don’t let him stay too long.”
The nurse nodded and Mrs. Mason left the room.

Quincy said in a low tone, as he sat in the chair
by the bedside, “Miss Mason, I can’t express
my sorrow for this unfortunate occurrence. Your
mother says you have told her it was your fault.
But I insisted it was my fault in allowing you to
drive a strange horse.”

Huldy smiled. “It wasn’t the horse,
Mr. Sawyer,” she said, and quickly changing
the subject asked, “Where are you going to board
now?”.

“Old Uncle Ike Pettengill has taken pity on
me,” replied Quincy, thinking he would not say
anything about going to Ezekiel Pettengill’s
house.

“But,” said Huldy, “Zekiel called
here this morning before he went to Boston for his
sister and told me that Uncle Ike was coming to live
with him. Didn’t I hear them take your
trunk away a little while ago?”

Quincy saw it was useless to prevaricate, so he said,
“My trunk was taken to Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill’s
house.”

“I hope you and ’Zekiel will be good friends,”
said Huldy, with a grave look on her face.

“I trust we may become so,” remarked Quincy.
“I am afraid we are not now, and I am still
more afraid it is my fault that we are not on the
best of terms.”

Huldy turned her face towards him, a red flush coloring
her cheeks and brow. “No,” she said,
with vehemence, “it was my fault, and you know
it, Mr. Sawyer. How you must hate me for having
caused you so much trouble.” She gave a
convulsive sob and burst into a flood of tears.

Quincy was on the point of assuring Huldy that he
could never hate her and that they would always be
good friends, but he had no opportunity to frame the
words.

As Huldy sobbed and began to cry, the nurse jumped
to her feet, dropped her book on the floor, and came
quickly to the bedside. She said nothing, but
the look upon her face convinced Quincy that he must
wait for a more auspicious moment to declare his friendly
sentiment. So with a “Good-by, Miss Mason,
I’ll call again soon,” he quitted the apartment
and left the victim to the ministrations of the nurse.

Page 54

CHAPTER XIV.

A quietevening.

After the somewhat exciting termination of his interview
with Miss Mason, Quincy left the house quickly and
walked down to Ezekiel Pettengill’s. Uncle
Ike was there and he told Mandy to show Mr. Sawyer
to his room, which proved to be the big front one upstairs.

When he was alone, Quincy sank into the capacious
rocking chair and fell to thinking. His mind
went back to his parting with Miss Mason. She
had said that it wasn’t the horse, so it must
have been what he said to her. Was she angry
because he had decided to go in order to stop village
gossip, or had she really cared for him? Well,
it was over now. He would never know what her
real feelings were, and after all it was best for
him not to know. He would drop the whole matter
where it was. Then he began to think about his
present position. Here he was located in the
house of the man who would naturally be considered
the last one to desire his company.

Uncle Ike had told him that he would make it all right.
If he failed in this and Ezekiel objected to his remaining
he could move again. He was determined not to
leave Mason’s Corner till he got ready, and he
felt sure he would not be ready to go until he had
squared accounts with Strout.

Presently he heard the sound of wheels. The Pettengill
house faced the south and Eastborough Centre lay west
of Mason’s Corner, so he could not see the team
when it arrived, as it drove up to the back door, but
he knew that Ezekiel had arrived with his sister.
Uncle Ike and Cobb’s twins went down stairs
quickly; there was a jumble of voices, and then the
party entered the house. A short time after he
heard persons moving in the room adjoining his, and
guessed that Ezekiel’s sister was to occupy
it.

Then he fell to imagining the conversation that was
doubtless going on between Uncle Ike and his nephew.
Quincy was not naturally nervous, but he did not like
suspense; almost unconsciously he arose and walked
back and forth across the room several times.
Then it occurred to him that probably the uncle and
nephew were having their conversation in the parlor,
which was right under him, and he curbed his impatience
and threw himself into the armchair, which stood near
the open fireplace.

As he did so there came a sharp rap at the door.
In response to the quick uttered “Come in,”
the door opened and Uncle Ike entered. He came
forward, took a seat in the rocking chair near Quincy
and passed him two letters.

Quincy looked up inquiringly. He had had his
mail sent to Eastborough Centre, where he had hired
a box. At the Mason’s Corner post office
the letters were stuck upon a rack, where every one
could see them, and Quincy did not care to have the
loungers at Hill’s grocery inspecting his correspondence.

Uncle Ike saw the look and understood it. Then
he said, “’Zekiel brought these over from
Eastborough Centre. He didn’t want to, but
the postmaster said one of them was marked ‘In
haste,’ and he had been over to the hotel and
found that you had gone to Mason’s Corner, and
probably wouldn’t be back to-day, and so he
thought ’Zekiel better bring it over.”

Page 55

“It was very kind of Mr. Pettengill,”
said Quincy, “and I wish you would thank him
for me.”

In the meantime he had glanced at his letters.
One bore, printed in the corner, the names, Sawyer,
Crowninshield, & Lawrence, Counsellors at Law, Court
Street, Boston, Mass. That was from his father.
The other was directed in a feminine hand and bore
the postmark, Mason’s Corner, Mass. He
could not imagine from whom it could be.

“I have had a talk with ’Zekiel,”
said Uncle Ike, “and the whole matter is satisfactorily
arranged; he is a fair-minded young fellow and he
don’t believe you have done anything with the
intention of injuring him. What did you pay up
to Deacon Mason’s?”

“Five dollars a week,” replied Quincy.

“Well, it will be the same here,” said
Uncle Ike. “You can stay as long as you
like. ’Zeke wouldn’t charge you anything,
but I said no, you have got to look out for your sister,
and Mr. Sawyer can afford to pay.”

Quincy broke in, “And I wouldn’t stay
unless I did pay. I am able and willing to pay
more, if he will take it.”

“Not a cent more,” said Uncle Ike.
“He will give you your money’s worth,
and then one won’t owe the other anything.
When you come down to supper I’ll introduce
you, just as if you had never seen each other, and
you can both take a fresh start.”

Uncle Ike arose. “By the time you have
read your letters supper will be ready, and I want
to go in and have a talk with Alice. She is my
only niece, Mr. Sawyer, and I think she is the finest
girl in Massachusetts, and, as far as I know, there
ain’t any better one in the whole world;”
and Uncle Ike went out, closing the door behind him.

Quincy resumed his seat by the window. The light
had faded considerably, but he could still see to
read. Naturally enough he first opened the letter
bearing the feminine handwriting. He looked at
the signature first of all and read “Lucinda
Putnam.” “What can she have to write
to me about?” he thought. He read the letter:

Mason’s Corner, January 22, 186—­

My dear Mr. Sawyer:—­I regret very much
that I was absent when you called, but am glad to
learn from mother that you had a pleasant visit.
Although you are from the city I am sure you would
blush if you could hear the nice things mother said
about you. I am conceited enough to think that
you will find time to call on us again soon, for I
wish to consult you regarding an important business
matter. I am going to Boston next Monday in relation
to this business and if you could make it convenient
to call before then it would be greatly appreciated
by

Yours very truly,LucindaPutnam.

Quincy reflected. “What is she up to?
Some legal business, I suppose.
Well, I am not practising law now; I shall have to
refer her to—­”

He took up the other letter and read, “Sawyer,
Crowninshield, &
Lawrence.”

His father’s letter read as follows:

Page 56

Boston, January 21, 186—­

My dear Son:—­Yours at hand, and inquiries
carefully noted. I had a brother, James Edward
Sawyer; he was five years older than I and must be
about sixty. Father wished him to study law, but
he wouldn’t study anything. When father
died he got his share of the money, about $50,000,
but he squandered the most of it in high living.
The next we heard of him he had married a country
girl named Eunice Raymond, I think. He brought
her to Boston and tried to introduce her into the society
he had been brought up in. She was a nice, pretty
woman, but uneducated, and naturally bashful, and
James finally left the city and went to live somewhere
in the country, I never knew where! he never wrote
me after leaving Boston. This Jim Sawyer may
be your uncle. I hope not, but if he is, remember
he is my brother, and if he needs any assistance let
me know at once. I hope your health is improving.
Your mother and sisters are well and send love, as
does also

Your affectionate father,NathanielAdamsSawyer.

As Quincy finished his second letter there was another
rap at the door and Mandy’s voice was heard
outside saying, “Supper’s ready, Mr. Saw—­yer.”

Quincy jumped to his feet. He had not unlocked
his trunk, as he was not certain that it would be
worth while to do so. It was but the work of a
few moments to make the necessary changes in his toilet.
He put on a black Prince Albert coat in place of a
sack coat that he usually wore, but before he had
completed this change there came another tap on the
door, and Mandy’s voice was heard saying, “The
things will get cold if you don’t come down
right away.”

As Quincy entered the large room which was used for
a dining-room, he was met by Uncle Ike. Ezekiel
was standing a short distance from his uncle.
Uncle Ike said, “’Zekiel, this is my friend,
Mr. Sawyer. Mr. Sawyer, this is my nephew, ’Zekiel
Pettengill. I am good friends with both of you,
and I hope you will be good friends to each other.”

The two men shook hands. If each had any idea
of what the other was thinking about he did not betray
it by look or act.

Uncle Ike continued, “Mr. Sawyer, this is Jim
Cobb and this is Bill Cobb, and this,” as Mandy
entered bearing something for the table, “is
Miss Mandy Skinner. Now that we are all acquainted,
I think we had all better introduce ourselves at once
to the supper. I haven’t done such a hard
day’s work for sixteen years.”

Ezekiel insisted upon Uncle Ike taking the head of
the table. He motioned Mr. Sawyer to take the
second seat from his uncle on the right, while he
took the first seat on the left, with Cobb’s
twins next to him.

Quincy immediately surmised that when the sister appeared
at the table she would probably sit between him and
Uncle Ike.

The meal was not a very lively one as far as conversation
went. Quincy inquired politely concerning Miss
Pettengill’s health, and Uncle Ike said she
was tired after her trip, and Mandy was going to take
her supper up to her.

Page 57

The meal was plentiful and well cooked. Quincy
thought to himself, how much brighter it would have
looked, and how much better the food would have tasted
if Miss Huldy Mason had been present with her pretty
face, joyous laugh, and occasional bright sayings.

After supper the things were quickly taken out by
Mandy. The white tablecloth was removed, and
one in which the prevailing color was bright red took
its place.

The three men drew up to the open fireplace.
Uncle Ike pulled out his pipe and said, “Do
you allow smoking here, ’Zeke?”

’Zekiel replied, “I wish you and Mr. Sawyer
to make yourselves perfectly at home and do just as
you would if you were in your own house.”

“Well, if I did that,” said Uncle Ike,
“you wouldn’t need Mandy, for I should
be chief cook and bottle washer myself.”

Uncle Ike lighted his pipe, and Ezekiel took a cigar
from his pocket, saying, “I guess I’ll
smoke, too.” Then his face reddened.
He said, “Beg pardon, Mr. Sawyer, I have only
this one.”

“That’s all right,” rejoined Quincy,
“a cigar would be too heavy for me to-night.
I have a slight headache, and if you will excuse me
I will roll a cigarette.”

He took his little case of rice paper from his pocket
and also a small pouch of tobacco, and deftly made
and lighted a cigarette. The three men sat smoking,
and as Quincy blew a ring into the air he wondered
what Sir Walter Raleigh would have said if he could
have looked in upon them.

Quincy broke the silence. “I am afraid,
Uncle Ike, that I have caused you much inconvenience
by driving you out of that pleasant front room where
I found my trunk.”

“Not a bit,” replied Uncle Ike. “I
hate carpets, and I prefer to sleep in my own bed,
and what’s more, I wanted to put up my stove,
and there was no chance in that front room. When
real cold weather comes I always have a ton of coal
for my stove, so I am much better off where I am than
I would be downstairs. By the way, ’Zeke,
just tell me all about Alice again. You won’t
mind Mr. Sawyer; he is one of the family now.”

“Well,” said Ezekiel, “Alice was
taken sick about the middle of December. The
folks where she boarded sent for a doctor. It
was about eight o’clock in the morning when
she was taken, and it was noon before she got easy,
so they could get her to bed. She thought she
was getting better; then, she had another attack;
then she thought she was getting better again, and
the third attack was the worst of the three. The
folks wanted to write to me, but she wouldn’t
let them. When she really did begin to get better,
she found out there was something that was worse than
being sick. She found she couldn’t see to
read either print or writing, but Alice is a spunky
girl, and she wouldn’t give in, even then.
A friend told her to go and see Dr. Moses, who was
an eye doctor, and put herself right under his treatment.
She thought she was going to get well right off at
first, but when she found it was likely to be a long
job, then she gave in and wrote to me. She has
brought her treatment down with her, and the doctor
says she will have to go to Boston once a month to
see him, as he is too busy to come down here.”

Page 58

At this point in the proceedings the door opened and
Mandy entered, bringing a large dish of big red apples
and another full of cracked shellbarks. She left
the room and returned almost immediately with a large
dish full of popcorn.

“Have an apple?” said Ezekiel. “Help
yourselves; we don’t pass anything round here.
We put the things on the table and each one helps himself.”

Mandy came in again, bringing a large pitcher of cider
and some glasses, which she placed upon the table.

While the three men were discussing their country
evening lunch in silence, an animated conversation
was taking place in the kitchen, the participants
being Mandy, Mrs. Bridget Crowley, and Hiram, who always
dropped in during the evening to get his glass of cider,
a luxury that was not dispensed at Deacon Mason’s.

“Well,” said Mandy, “I think it’s
wasteful extravagance for you Irish folks to spend
so much money on carriages when one of your friends
happens to die. As you just said, when you lived
in Boston you own up you spent fourteen dollars in
one month going to funerals, and you paid a dollar
a seat each time.”

“I did that,” said Mrs. Crowley, “and
I earned every bit of it doing washing, for Pat, bless
his sowl, was out of work at the time.”

“Just think of that!” said Mandy, turning
to Hiram.

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said
Mrs. Crowley, obstinately. “Shure and if
I don’t go to folks’ funerals they won’t
come to mine.”

This was too much for Mandy and Hiram, and they began
laughing, which so incensed Mrs. Crowley that she
trudged off to her little room in the ell, which departure
just suited Mandy and Hiram.

[Illustration: “MandySkinner,”
Assheappearsintheplay.]

“Have you got any soft soap here in the kitchen?”
asked Hiram.

“No,” said Mandy, “I used the last
this afternoon. I shall have to go out in the
shed to-morrow morning and get some.”

“You wouldn’t be likely to go out to-night
for any?” asked Hiram.

“I guess not,” said Mandy. “Why,
there is rats out in that shed as big as kittens.
Did you want to use some?”

“No,” said Hiram, “but I didn’t
want you to have any ’round handy, for I am
bound to tell you I heard Strout telling the minister’s
son that Lindy Putnam writ a letter to Mr. Sawyer
and mailed it at Mason’s Corner post office
this mornin’, and it was directed to Eastborough
Centre, and Strout said it looked as though they were
keeping up correspondence. I tell you that made
’Manuel Howe mad, for he’s gone on Lindy
Putnam himself, and then Strout said that probably
all the fellers in town would have to put off getting
married until that city chap had decided which one
of the girls he wanted himself. And now, hang
it,” said Hiram, “he has come to live
in this house, and I sha’n’t have any peace
of mind.”

Hiram dodged the first apple Mandy threw at his head,
but the second one hit him squarely, and he gave a
loud “Oh!”

Page 59

“Stop your noise,” said Mandy, “or
Mr. Pettengill will be out here. I’ll ask
them if they want anything else,” as she rapped
on the door. There was no response and she opened
it and looked in. “Why, they have all gone
to bed,” she said. At that moment the old
clock in the kitchen struck nine. “It’s
nine o’clock and you had better be going home,
Hiram Maxwell.”

“I shall have to get some anarchy to put on
my forehead,” said Hiram. “See that
big bump, Mandy, that you made.”

Mandy approached him quite closely and looked at his
forehead; as she did so she turned up her nose and
puckered her mouth. Her arms were hanging by
her side. Hiram grasped her around the waist,
holding both of her arms tight, and before Mandy could
break away he gave her a kiss full on the mouth.

He made a quick rush for the door, opened it and dashed
out into the night. Luckily for him there was
no moon and he was out of sight before Mandy could
recover her self-possession and reach the door.
She peered out into the darkness for a moment; then
she closed the door and bolted it, took a lamp and
went up to her own room. Standing in front of
her looking glass, she turned up her nose and puckered
up her mouth as she had done when facing Hiram.

“That’s the first time Hiram Maxwell ever
kissed me,” she said to herself, “Mebbe
it will be the last time and mebbe it won’t.”
Then she said reflectively, “I didn’t
think the little fellow had so much spunk in him.”

In a quarter of an hour she was dreaming of cupids,
and hearts, and arrows, and St. Valentine’s
Day, which was not so very far away.

CHAPTER XV.

A longlostrelative.

Ezekiel Pettengill owned what Deacon Mason did not—­a
nice carryall and a good road horse. Ezekiel
would fix no price, but Quincy would not drive him
unless he paid for the use of the team. One dollar
for half a day, two dollars for a whole day, were
the prices finally fixed upon.

Quincy drove first to Mrs. Putnam’s. As
he was ascending the steps the front door was opened
and Lindy stood there to welcome him, which she did
by extending her hand and then showing him into the
parlor. She was evidently on the point of going
out, for she had on her outdoor garments. After
a few commonplaces relating to health and the weather,
Quincy abruptly approached the object of his visit
by saying, “I received your letter, Miss Putnam,
and I have come to see if I can be of any service
to you.”

“Oh! I know you can,” said Lindy;
“you are wealthy—­”

“I beg your pardon,” interposed Quincy,
“I am not what they call a wealthy young man;
the fact that my father is possessed of a large fortune
has probably given rise to the incorrect impression
just repeated by you.”

“I understand,” said Lindy, with a laugh.
“What I meant to say was, that you are undoubtedly
acquainted with wealthy gentlemen, who know the best
ways of investing money. I find my money a great
trouble to me,” she continued. “I
had $25,000 invested in a first mortgage, but the property
has been sold and the money repaid to me, and I don’t
know what to do with it.”

Page 60

“The obvious thing to do,” remarked Quincy,
“is to invest it at once, so that it will begin
paying you interest.”

“That is just what I wished to see you about,”
responded Lindy. “How would you advise
me to invest it?” she asked.

“I would not presume,” replied Quincy,
“to give positive advice in such a case.
I would go either to Foss & Follansbee, or Braithwaite
& Mellen, or perhaps Rothwell Brothers & Co., look
over the securities they have for sale and make my
own selection, if I were in your place.”

Lindy was manifestly disappointed at Quincy’s
polite refusal to recommend any particular security,
but she evidently realized that further argument or
entreaty would be useless, so she quickly changed
the subject by remarking that her mother had considerable
money invested, but that she was a woman who never
took any advice and never gave any.

“I wonder who my mother is going to leave her
money to? Do you know, Mr. Sawyer?”

Quincy replied that he did not. “But she
did tell me that by the terms of your brother’s
will you were not to inherit it.”

“Well,” he replied, “I don’t
think it at all likely that they will inform me; but
I promise to tell you if I learn who it is and am not
bound in any way to keep the information secret.”

“And will you tell me just as soon as you know?”
persisted Lindy.

“In less than twenty-four hours from the time
I learn the name you shall hear it from my own lips,”
he replied.

“Thank you,” said Lindy. “Would
you like to see father and mother? Father has
been quite sick for a few days and they are in their
own room. I will go up and tell them you are
coming.”

Quincy was left in the room. That gossip about
Miss Putnam could not be true. Gossip said she
was ashamed of her father and mother, and yet she
had invited him to go up and see them. What a
pretty girl she was, well educated and with a hundred
thousand dollars; such a beautiful singer and their
voices blended so nicely together. How pleased
his mother and sisters would be if he should bring
home a wife like her. On the wall hung an oil
portrait of her, evidently painted within a short time.
He sat looking at it as Lindy opened the door.

Before he could remove his eyes from the picture,
Lindy had noticed his fixed gaze at it and smiled
brightly.

“Mother would be delighted to see you.”

Lindy rang a small bell that was on a table.
In a moment Samanthy entered the room.

“Samantha, please show Mr. Sawyer to mother’s
room. Will you excuse me, Mr. Sawyer, if I am
not here to say good-by to you after you have seen
mother? I am going to the city this morning and
there—­” looking out of the window—­“here
comes Abner Stiles; he is going to drive me over to
Eastborough. Did you ever meet Mr. Stiles, Mr.
Sawyer?”

Page 61

“I may have seen him,” replied Quincy.

“Seeing him is nothing,” said Lindy.
“He must be heard to be appreciated. He
is a most engaging talker; he has caught the biggest
fish and killed the biggest bears—­”

“And told the biggest lies,” broke in
Quincy,—­

“Of any man in town,” Lindy concluded.

“I think there is one man in town who can tell
bigger ones,” Quincy said gravely; “he
has been telling a good many lately.”

Lindy looked up and smiled. “He will never
forgive us for what we did at the concert,”
said she, “Well, I mustn’t keep Mr. Stiles
waiting any longer, if I do he may—­”

“Try to compete with the other one,” added
Quincy.

She smiled again, and gave him her little gloved hand,
which he took in his for an instant.

She ran out quickly and got into the team, which immediately
drove off. Samanthy, who had been waiting impatiently
in the hallway, ushered Quincy into an upper chamber,
where sat Mrs. Putnam. Her husband was reclining
on a lounge near the fire.

[Illustration: “Samanthygreen,”
Assheappearsintheplay.]

“Well, I am awful glad to see yer,” said
Mrs. Putnam. “Silas here hasn’t been
feelin’ fust rate for more’n a week.
He’s most frozen to death all the time.
So I got him up front of the fire, same as I used to
roast turkeys. Set down, Mr. Sawyer, and tell
me all the news. Have you heerd anybody going
to git engaged or anybody going to git married?
I heerd as how you had left Deacon Mason’s.
So you ’cided to take my advice. I’m
kinder sorry you tipped the buggy over, for Huldy Mason’s
a nice girl. The fact is I was thinkin’
more of her than I was of you, when I told yer you’d
better git out. Where be yer boardin’ now?”

“I am boarding at Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill’s.
His sister has got home and his Uncle Isaac has come
back to live with him.”

“Lord sakes, do tell!” said Mrs. Putnam.
“I allus thought that old fool would die out
there in the woods and they’d bury him in his
chicken coop. But what on airth is Alice home
for? Has she lost her job?”

“No,” replied Quincy; “poor girl,
she has almost lost her sight. She has been very
sick, and as a result she is almost blind, and had
to give up work and come home.”

Mrs. Putnam sank back in her chair.

“If I didn’t think you were a truthful
man, Mr. Sawyer, I wouldn’t b’lieve a
word you said. My poor Alice. Why, do you
know, Mr. Sawyer, I never saw a human being in all
my life that I liked so much as I have Alice Pettengill.
Did you ever see her, Mr. Sawyer?”

“No,” said Quincy, “she only arrived
yesterday afternoon, and she did not appear at supper
nor at breakfast this morning. She was tired and
wished to rest, her brother told me.”

Page 62

“Well, I hope she won’t die,” said
Mrs. Putnam. “I have left her every dollar
I’ve got in the world, and if she should die
I shouldn’t know who on airth to give it to.
Well, there, I’ve let the cat out of the bag,
and my daughter Lindy, mean as she is about money,
would give a thousand dollars to know who I am goin’
to leave my money to. I wish I could see Alice.
I can’t walk, and that poor, deaf girl can’t
see. Why, Mr. Sawyer, I think she’s the
prettiest, sweetest girl I ever sot eyes on in my
life, and I’ve seed a good many on ’em.
Now you tell me what you think of her the next time
you come up, won’t you, Mr. Sawyer?”

“I certainly will,” said Quincy, “and
if she will come with me I will bring her over to
see you. If she came from Boston with her brother,
she can surely ride as far as this,” he added.

“Tell her I shall count every minute till she,
comes over here, but don’t say a word to her
about my money,” said Mrs. Putnam.

“Certainly not,” Quincy answered.
“You did not intend to tell me.”

“No, I didn’t,” acknowledged Mrs.
Putnam, “it slipped out before I thought.”

Quincy arose. “I must go now, Mrs. Putnam.
I have business at Eastborough Centre, and I don’t
know how long it will take me, and besides, I am anxious
to see Miss Pettengill after your glowing description
of her beauty and her virtues.”

“Well, I haven’t put the paint on half
as thick as it would stand,” said Mrs. Putnam.
“Well, good-by, Mr. Sawyer. It’s very
kind in you to come and see two old folks like us.
No use saying good-by to Silas; he’s stone deef
and besides he’s sound asleep.”

When Quincy took up the reins and started towards
Eastborough Centre it was with conflicting emotions.
If there had been no Alice Pettengill to see, his
thoughts, no doubt, would have related chiefly to Lindy
Putnam, who had never attracted his attention before
as she had that morning. Could Alice Pettengill
be as pretty and as good as Mrs. Putnam had portrayed?
And she was to be an heiress. He was sorry that
Mrs. Putnam had told him. When he was talking
to Miss Pettengill what he knew would be continually
in his mind. He was glad that she was to have
the money, but very sorry that he knew she was to
have it; he had promised not to tell her, but he had
promised to tell Lindy. Mrs. Putnam had not told
him not to tell Lindy, but she had said Lindy would
give a thousand dollars to know. Now, was that
the same as requesting him not to tell Lindy, and
should he tell Lindy for nothing what her mother said
she would give a thousand dollars to know? Anyhow,
that question must be decided within the next twenty-four
hours.

Then he began to think of his intended visit to Eastborough
Poorhouse. Would the Jim Sawyer that he found
there turn out to be his own uncle? What a sweet
morsel that would be for Strout if it proved to be
true. Anyhow, he would follow his father’s
instructions and do all he could for his uncle, come
what might.

Page 63

Since he had arrived at Mason’s Corner everything
that he had done seemed to give rise to gossip, and
a little more of it could do no harm.

Quincy reached the Poorhouse and inquired for the
keeper. A very stout, red-faced man answered
the summons.

He informed Quincy that his name was Asa Waters, and
that he had been keeper of the town Poorhouse for
the last ten years.

Quincy thought from his size, as he evidently weighed
between three and four hundred pounds, that he had
probably eaten all the food supplied for the inmates.
In reply to a direct question whether there was a man
there by the name of Jim Sawyer, Mr. Waters said “yes,”
but that he was sick abed and had been for the last
week.

“He coughs awful,” said Waters; “in
fact, I had to change his room because the rest of
us couldn’t sleep. When we tried to move
him he became sort of crazy like, and it took three
on us to get him out of the room and take him upstairs.
He seems sot on getting back in that room. The
other day he crawled down stairs and we found him trying
to get into the room, but I had it locked and we had
another fight to get him upstairs again.”

“Well,” said Quincy, “I would like
to see him; it may be he is a distant relative of
our family. My father wishes me to talk with him
and make the inquiry anyway.”

“What mought your name be?” asked Mr.
Waters.

“My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer.”

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” said Waters.
“Wasn’t you the singer that Mr. Strout
hired to come down from Boston to sing at his concert.
Strout told me he paid you $50 for singing that night,
and by gosh it was worth it.”

Quincy was not a profane young man, but he had to
smother an oath on hearing that. He replied,
“Yes, I sang that night.”

“And,” said Waters, “didn’t
you whistle that piece, Listen to the Bobolink, fine?”

“Here, Sam,” said he to a young fellow
who appeared in sight, “show this gentleman
up to Jim Sawyer’s room; I’m getting kind
of pussy, and I don’t go upstairs much.”

Sam performed his mission and Quincy was ushered into
the room and found himself with the sick man.

“Is your name James Sawyer?” asked Quincy.

“Yes,” said the man. “I used
to be proud of it once.”

“Did you have a brother?” asked Quincy.

“Well,” said Jim, “I don’t
think he would be proud of me now, so I guess I won’t
claim any relationship.”

Quincy stopped for a moment. Evidently the man’s
pride would keep him from telling anything about himself.
He would try him on a new tack. The man had a
long fit of coughing. When it had subsided, Quincy
said, “It wearies you to talk. I will do
the talking, and if what I say is true you can nod
your head.” Quincy continued, “Your
name is James Edward Sawyer, your brother’s
name was Nathaniel.” The man opened his
eyes wide and looked steadfastly at him. “Your
father, Edward Sawyer, left you fifty thousand dollars.”
The man clutched with both hands at the quilt on the
bed. “You are about sixty years of age.”
The man nodded. “You married a young girl
who lived in the country and took her to Boston with
you; her maiden name was Eunice Raymond.”

Page 64

The man started up in bed, resting on his elbow.
“How did you know all this?” asked he.
“Who has told you this? Who are you?”

The exertion and the rapid speaking brought on another
fit of coughing and he fell back on his pillow.

“If what I have said is true,” remarked
Quincy quietly, “your brother, Nathaniel, is
my father, and I am your nephew, Quincy Adams Sawyer.”

“Who sent you to see me?” asked the man.

“I heard,” replied Quincy, “that
a man named James Sawyer was in the Eastborough Poorhouse.
I wrote to my father, and in his reply he told me
what I have just said to you. If you are my uncle,
father says to do everything I can to help you, and
if he had not said so I would have done it anyway.”

“It is all true,” said the man faintly.
“I squandered the money my father left me.
I married a sweet, young girl and took her to the city.
I tried to introduce her into the set to which I once
belonged. It was a failure. I was angry,
not with myself for expecting too much, but with her
because she gave me too little, as I then thought.
We had two children—­a boy named Ray and
a little girl named Mary, after my mother.”

“My grandmother,” said Quincy.

James Sawyer continued: “I took to drink.
I abused the woman whose only fault had been that
she had loved me. I neglected to provide for my
family. My wife fell sick, my two little children
died, and my wife soon followed them. I returned
from a debauch which had lasted me for about a month
to find that I was alone in the world. I fled
from the town where we had lived, came here and tried
to reform. I could not. I fell sick and
they sent me here to the Poorhouse. I have had
no ambition to leave. I knew if I did it would
mean the same old life. I am glad you came.
I cannot tell you how glad. I do not wish for
any assistance; the town will care for me as long
as I live, which will not be very long; but your coming
enables me to perform an act of justice which otherwise
I could not have done.”

“Tell me in what way I can serve you,”
said Quincy, “and it shall be done.”

“Look outside of the door,” said the man,
“and see if anybody is listening.”

Quincy opened the door suddenly and the broad face
of Mr. Asa Waters stood revealed.

“I thought I would come up and see if Mr. Sawyer
wanted anything.”

“If he does,” said Quincy, “I will
inform you;” and he closed the door in Mr. Waters’s
face.

Quincy waited till he heard his ponderous footsteps
descending the stairs at the foot of the hallway.

“Was old Waters out there listening?”
asked Jim Sawyer.

“I don’t think he had time to hear anything,”
Quincy replied.

“Come closer,” said Jim; “let me
whisper. I am not penniless. I have got
some money. I have five thousand dollars in government
bonds. I sold some stock I owned just before
I went off on that last debauch, but I didn’t
spend all the money. When I die I want you to
pay back to the town of Eastborough every dollar I
owe for board. Don’t let anybody know you
got the money from me. Pay it yourself and keep
the balance of it yourself.”

Page 65

“Where is the money?” said Quincy.

“It is down in my old room, No. 24, one flight
down from here, at the other end of the hallway.
I have got a key that will open the door. I made
it myself. I nearly got in there the other day,
but they caught me before I had a chance to open the
door. If you can get in there take up the fourth
brick from the window, second row from the front of
the fireplace, and you will find the bonds in an old
leather wallet. What time is it?” he asked
quickly.

“Half-past eleven,” replied Quincy.

“Now is your time,” said the man; “all
the hands have their dinner from half-past eleven
to twelve; at twelve they feed us; take this key, and
if you get the money, for God’s sake come around
to-morrow and let me know. I sha’n’t
sleep a wink till I hear from you.”

Quincy pressed the sick man’s hand and left
the room. He went downstairs on tiptoe and quickly
reached room No. 24. He listened; all was quiet;
it took but an instant to open the door, and, slipping
quietly in, he locked it after him. With some
difficulty he found the wallet, looked inside and
saw five one thousand dollar United States bonds.
He put the wallet in his pocket, replaced the brick,
and listened at the door; all was quiet. He unlocked
it, slipped out, locked it, and was retracing his
steps, when he saw Sam coming upstairs at the other
end of the hallway.

“I think I took the wrong turn,” said
Quincy. “I thought I came up that way.”

“No,” said Sam; “that’s the
back way.”

“Thank you,” said Quincy, as he ran lightly
downstairs. At the foot he met Mr. Waters.

“Well, is he any relative of yours?” asked
Waters.

“I don’t know yet,” replied Quincy;
“he has given me some facts, and I am going
to write to Boston, and when I hear from there I will
be able to answer your question. I will come
around in a few days, as soon as I hear from the city.”

Quincy jumped into his team and drove to Eastborough
Centre post office to see if there were any letters
for him.

When he reached the post office he found a letter
from his father, informing him his mother and sisters
were going to New York for a two weeks’ visit
and would very much like to see him if he would run
up the next day.

Quincy’s mind was made up instantly. He
drove to the hotel, left the team, with instructions
to have it ready for him when he came down on the
express that reached Eastborough Centre at 7.15 P.M.,
ran for the station and caught on to the back platform
of the last car as it sped on its way to Boston.

Arriving there, he first took a hasty lunch, then
hiring a coupe by the hour, drove to his bank on State
Street. Here he left the bonds with instructions
to write to Eastborough Centre the amount realized
from them and passed to the credit of his account.

His next trip was to his father’s house on Beacon
Street, where he found his mother and sisters.
They were overjoyed to see him, and his younger sister
declared that he had grown better looking since he
went away. She wanted to know if he had fallen
in love with a country girl. Quincy replied that
his heart was still free and if it wasn’t for
the law he would have her for his wife, and no one
else. Maude laughed and slapped him.

Page 66

He next rode to his father’s office on Court
Street. The Hon. Nathaniel had just lunched at
Parker’s and was enjoying a good cigar when his
son came in.

Quincy told him that the Jim Sawyer at Eastborough
Poorhouse was unquestionably their missing relative.

“Poor Jim,” said Nathaniel; “I ought
to go and see him.”

“No; I wouldn’t,” said Quincy, “it
will do no good, and his remorse is deep enough now
without adding to it.”

He then told his father about the money, and the latter
agreed that Jim’s idea was right and Quincy
had best use the money as though it were his own.

“By the by,” said his father, wheeling
round in his office chair, “that Miss Putnam
from Eastborough is a very pretty girl; don’t
you think so, Quincy?”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” thought
Quincy to himself, but he only said, “Where
did you see her?”

“She was in here to-day,” replied his
father. “She said she had $25,000 to invest,
and that you gave her the address of some broker, but
that she had forgotten it.”

“Her statement is partially true,” said
Quincy, “but not complete. I gave her three
addresses, because I did not wish to recommend any
particular one. I wished her to make her own choice.”

“I was not so conservative,” remarked
his father. “I advised her to go to Foss
& Follansbee and even suggested that Quinnebaug Copper
Company was one of the most promising investments
before the public to-day.”

“Did she confide in you any farther,”
said Quincy.

“Oh, yes,” replied his father; “I
gleaned she was worth $100,000 and that her parents,
who were very old people, had nearly as much more.
I remember her brother, J. Jones Putnam. He was
a ‘plunger,’ and a successful one.
He died suddenly of lung fever, I believe.”

Quincy smiled.

“She seemed to be well educated,” his
father continued, “and told me that you and
she sang together at a concert.”

“Did she tell you what her father’s religion
was?” inquired Quincy.

“You don’t seem to admire this young lady,
Quincy. I thought she would be likely to be a
great friend of yours. You might do worse than—­”

“I know,” said Quincy, “she is pretty,
well educated, musical, very tasteful in dress, and
has money, but she can’t have me. But how
did it end?” asked he; “how did you get
rid of her?”

“Well,” replied his father, “as
I said before, I thought she must be a great friend
of yours, and perhaps more, so I went down to Foss
& Follansbee’s with her; then we went to Parker’s
to lunch, then I sent her to the station in a coupe.”

“I am greatly obliged to you, father,”
said Quincy, “for the kind attentions you paid
her. I shall get the full credit of them down
in Eastborough; your name will not be mentioned; only,”
said Quincy with a laugh, “if she is coming
to the city very often I think perhaps I had better
come back to Boston and look after mother’s interests.”

Page 67

The Hon. Nathaniel was nettled by this and said sternly,
“I do not like that sort of pleasantry, Quincy.”

“Neither do I,” said Quincy coolly, “and
I hope there will be no further occasion for it.”

“How long do you intend to remain in Eastborough?”
asked his father.

“I don’t know,” replied Quincy.
“I can’t come home while Uncle Jim is
sick, of course. I will ask him if he would like
to see you, and if he says yes, I will telegraph you.
Well, good-by. I was up to the house and saw
mother and the girls. I am going up to the club
to see if I can meet some of the boys and have some
dinner, and I shall go down on the 6.05 express.”

Quincy lighted a cigar, shook hands rather stiffly
with his father and left the office.

When Quincy reached the Pettengill house it was a
little after eight o’clock. Hiram came
out to help him put up the horse. “Anybody
up?” asked Quincy.

“Only Mandy and me,” said Hiram.
“Uncle Ike is up in his attic, and ‘Zeke
is up talkin’ to his sister, and Mandy and me
has been talkin’ to each other; and, say, Mr.
Sawyer, did you meet Lindy Putnam up in Boston to-day?”

“No,” said Quincy between his shut teeth.

“Well, that’s funny,” said Hiram;
“I heard Abner Stiles telling Strout as how
Miss Putnam told him that Mr. Sawyer had been to the
banker’s with her to invest her money, and that
Mr. Sawyer took her out to lunch and then rode down
to the station in a carriage and put her aboard the
train.”

“There are a great many Mr. Sawyers in Boston,
you must remember, Hiram,” remarked Quincy.
“Anything else, Hiram?”

“Well, not much more,” replied Hiram;
“but Strout said that if you got Lindy and her
money and then cajoled the old couple into leavin’
their money to you, that it would be the best game
of bunco that had ever been played in Eastborough.”

“Well, Strout ought to know what a good bunco
game is,” said Quincy. “Have the
horse ready by nine o’clock in the morning if
you can get over. Good night, Hiram,” he
said.

He passed through the kitchen, saying good night to
Mandy, and went straight to his own room. He
sat and thought for an hour, going over the events
of the day.

“As soon as Uncle Jim is dead and buried,”
said he to himself, “I think I will leave this
town. As the children say when they play ’hide
and go seek,’ I am getting warm.”

CHAPTER XVI.

A promisekept.

Quincy was up next morning at eight o’clock
and ate his breakfast with ’Zekiel. ’Zekiel
said his sister did not sleep well nights, and so would
not be down till later.

“Do you want the team this morning, Mr. Pettengill?”
asked Quincy.

“No,” said ’Zekiel, “but the
Boston doctor wrote to Deacon Mason that he was comin’
down this afternoon to take that stuff off Huldy’s
arm, and she wanted me to come up, so I shall be up
there all the afternoon.”

Page 68

“That reminds me,” said Quincy. “Will
you tell Deacon Mason that I want the nurse to stay
until to-morrow and I will be up to see her at nine
o’clock?”

Quincy took up the reins and started for Eastborough
Poorhouse.

He found his uncle weaker than on the day before.
Quincy touched his hand, but did not lift it from
the bed. Jim pointed towards the door.

“It’s all right,” said Quincy, “there
is no one there.”

“Did you get it?” asked Uncle Jim in a
whisper.

“Yes,” replied Quincy, “and it’s
safe in the bank in Boston.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Uncle Jim.
“Now I don’t care how soon I am called
to judgment for my sins.”

“Uncle Jim,” said Quincy, “I saw
my father yesterday afternoon. Would you like
to have your brother come see you?”

Uncle Jim shook his head. “It will do no
good,” said he. “You have done all
I could wish for. Pay the town for my board.
Give them what they ask. Do with the balance
what you wish, Quincy. It is yours.”

“Where do you wish to be buried, Uncle?”
asked Quincy bravely.

“Right here,” replied Uncle Jim.
“One of the boys here died about a month ago;
his name was Tom Buck. He was a good fellow and
did many kind things for me. Bury me side of
him.”

“One more question, Uncle,” said Quincy.
“In what town did your wife and children reside
when they died?”

“In Amesbury,” said Uncle Jim. An
idea seemed to strike him. “Well, Quincy,
do you suppose you could find where they are buried?”

“Of course I can,” Quincy answered.

“Well,” continued Uncle Jim, “I
don’t deserve it, I am not worthy of it, but
she always loved me, and so did the children.
I never struck her, nor them, nor did I ever speak
unkindly to them. I never went home when I was
drunk. I deserted them and left them to suffer.
I don’t think she would object, do you?”

Quincy divined his thoughts and answered, “No,
I do not, Uncle.”

“If you will do it, Quincy,” said Uncle
Jim, “I shall die a happy man. Buy a little
lot and put me beside Eunice and the children.
Don’t put my name on the stone, put her name
and those of the children. That will please me
best. She will know I am there, but others will
not.”

“It shall be done as you say, Uncle,”
said Quincy. “I will be here early to-morrow
morning and I shall come every day to see you.
Good-by.”

He touched his uncle’s hand again softly and
left the room. Uncle Jim, with a smile upon his
wasted face, fell asleep.

Quincy drove leisurely towards Mason’s Corner.
It was more than twenty-four hours since he had learned
who was to be Mrs. Putnam’s heiress. He
had made a promise. Should he keep it? How
could he avoid keeping it? He would see Miss
Putnam and be governed by circumstances.

He reached the Putnam house and was shown into the
same room as on the morning before. In a few
minutes Lindy joined him. He had never seen her
looking better. She had on a handsome gown that
he had never seen before. Quincy opened the conversation.

Page 69

“Did you enjoy your trip to Boston yesterday,
Miss Putnam?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Lindy, “I must
tell you all about it.”

“There is no need to, Miss Putnam, I am acquainted
with the most important events of your trip already.”

“Why, how?” asked Lindy. “Oh,
I see,” said she, “you had a letter from
your father.”

“No,” said Quincy. “I had the
pleasure of a conversation with my father yesterday
afternoon in Boston.”

“Is that so?” exclaimed Lindy.

“Yes,” said Quincy, “but I might
have learned all the principal facts without leaving
Mason’s Corner. In fact, I did learn them
in a somewhat distorted shape late last evening.”

Lindy colored until her forehead was as red as her
cheeks.

“I do not understand you, Mr. Sawyer,”
she remarked.

“It is easily explained,” said Quincy.
“Mr. Stiles forgot to mention that it was my
father who was your escort and not myself. Of
course he would offer the similarity in names as his
excuse.”

“And so,” said Lindy, recovering herself,
“you have come here to scold me because Abner
Stiles didn’t tell the truth. I told you
he was a wonderful story teller.”

“No, Miss Putnam,” said Quincy, “I
did not come here for any such purpose. I made
you a promise yesterday and I have come to keep it.
I know who is to inherit your mother’s money.
She did not intend to tell me, but the name escaped
her unintentionally.”

“Did she ask you not to tell me?” asked
Lindy.

“No,” replied Quincy, “not in so
many words.”

“Then you must tell me,” cried Lindy eagerly.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Quincy.
“Your mother said you would give a thousand
dollars to know the name of the person. This fixes
the condition on which I shall divulge the name.”

“And if I did give you a thousand dollars,”
inquired Lindy, “what would you do with the
money?”

“I should give it to your mother,” said
Quincy. “She fixed the price of the secret,
not I.”

Lindy walked to the window and looked out. She
wished to know the name. She had her suspicions,
but she could not bear to give up a thousand dollars
of her own money, for she knew that this, too, would
go to the unknown heiress. She knew Alice Pettengill
was in town and at her brother’s house.
She had been there for a whole day and parts of two
others. She would save her money and at the same
time learn the truth.

Turning to Quincy she said, “I cannot afford
to pay you, or rather my mother, a thousand dollars
for the secret. It is not worth it. I will
not ask you again for her name, but if you will answer
me one simple question I will absolve you from your
promise.”

Quincy reflected. He knew that Lindy was deep
and that she was plotting something while she stood
at the window. But he wished this matter over,
he was tired of it, so he replied, “I will answer
your simple question, Miss Putnam, on one condition.
It is that you will not deem me guilty of any intentional
discourtesy if, after replying to it, I at once take
my leave.”

Page 70

They faced each other, she hardly able to conceal
her impatience, he with a stern look upon his face.

“My simple question is this, Mr. Sawyer, have
you ever eaten a meal at the same table with my mother’s
heiress?”

“I have never seen her,” replied Quincy
coldly. He took his hat, and with a low bow quitted
the house and drove away.

Lindy threw herself in a passion on the sofa and burst
into a flood of tears. She had played her last
card and had lost.

CHAPTER XVII.

Aninformalintroduction.

When Quincy drove into the barn he found Jim Cobb
there, and he turned the horse over to him. Entering
by the back door he passed through the kitchen without
seeing either Mandy or Mrs. Crowley, and went slowly
upstairs. The house was very quiet. He remembered
that Uncle Ike had gone to Eastborough Centre and
’Zekiel had gone to Deacon Mason’s.
It was necessary for him to pass the door of the room
occupied by Alice Pettengill in order to reach his
own room. The door of her room was open.
He involuntarily glanced in and then stood still.

What vision was this that met his eye? The sun,
now dropping to the westward, threw its rays in at
the window and they fell upon the head of the young
girl seated beside it.

The hair was golden in the sunlight, that real golden
that is seldom seen excepting on the heads of young
children. She seemed slight in figure, but above
the average stature. She wore a loose-fitting
dress of light blue material, faced down the front
with white, and over her shoulders was thrown a small
knitted shawl of a light pink color. Quincy could
not see her face, except in profile, for it was turned
towards the window, but the profile was a striking
one. He turned to step forward and enter his
own room. As he did so the board upon which he
stood creaked. He stopped again suddenly, hoping
that the noise would not attract her attention, but
her quick ear had caught the sound, and, rising, she
advanced towards the door, her hands extended before
her.

She had started in a straight line towards the door,
but for some cause, perhaps the bright light coming
from the wood fire in the open fireplace, she swerved
in her course and would have walked directly towards
the blazing wood had not Quincy rushed forward, caught
her by the hand and stopped her further progress,
saying as he did so, “Miss Pettengill, you will
set your dress on fire.”

“You are not Uncle Ike,” said she, quickly.
“He could not walk as fast as that. Who
are you? You must know me, for you called me by
name.”

Quincy replied, “Under the circumstances, Miss
Pettengill, I see no way but to introduce myself.
I am your brother’s boarder, and my name is
Sawyer.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Sawyer,”
said she, extending her hand, which Quincy took.
“I feel acquainted with you already, for Uncle
Ike speaks of you very often, and ’Zekiel said
you used to board at Deacon Mason’s. Don’t
you think Huldy is a lovely girl?”

Page 71

Quincy avoided this direct question and replied, “Uncle
Ike has been equally kind in speaking of his niece,
Miss Pettengill, so that I feel acquainted with her
even without this,—­I was going to say formal
introduction,—­but I think that we must both
confess it was rather informal.”

Alice laughed merrily. “Won’t you
sit down, Mr. Sawyer? I have been alone nearly
all day, and have really been very lonesome.”

She turned and groped, as if feeling for a chair.
Quincy sprang forward, placed a large rocking chair
before the fire, then, taking her hand, saw her safely
ensconced in it. He then took a seat in a large
armchair at the end of the fireplace nearest the door.

“Thank you, Mr. Sawyer,” said Alice.
“Everybody has been so kind to me since I have
had this trouble with my eyes. Of course ’Zekiel
has told you about it.”

“Yes,” assented Quincy.

He really did not care to talk. He was satisfied
to sit and look at her, and he could do this with
impunity, for she could not see his earnest gaze fixed
upon her.

“I have been used to an active life,”
said Alice. “I have had my business to
attend to every day, and evenings I had my books, papers,
pictures, and music. At first it seemed so hard
to be shut out from them all, but years ago Uncle
Ike taught me to be a philosopher and to take life
as it came, without constantly fretting or finding
fault. Uncle Ike says, ‘It is not work
but worry that wears men out,’ That’s why
he came down here to live in the woods. He said
they wouldn’t let him work and so he worried
all the time, but when he came here he had plenty to
do, and in his work he found happiness.”

“I am learning a good lesson,” said Quincy
with a laugh. “I have studied much, but
I actually never did a day’s work in all my life,
Miss Pettengill.”

“Then you are to be pitied,” said Alice
frankly; “but I see I should not blame you,
you are studying now and getting ready to work.”

“Perhaps so,” Quincy remarked. “My
father wishes me to be a lawyer, but I detest reading
law, and have no inclination to follow in my father’s
footsteps.”

“Perhaps you are too young,” said Alice,
“to settle upon your future career. I cannot
see you, you know, and Uncle Ike did not say how old
you were.”

“So old!” exclaimed Alice; “why,
I am not twenty-one until next June, and I have been
working for my living since I was sixteen.”

Quincy said, “I wish I had as honorable a record.”

“Now you are vexed with me for speaking so plainly,”
said Alice.

“Not at all,” Quincy replied. “I
thank you for it. I have learned from Uncle Ike
that frankness of speech and honesty of heart are Pettengill
characteristics.”

Page 72

“You might add,” said Alice, “firmness
in debate, for none of us like to own up that we are
beaten. I remember years ago Uncle Ike and I had
a long discussion as to whether it were better to
be stone blind or stone deaf. I took the ground
that it was better to be blind, for one could hear
music and listen to the voices of friends, and hear
the sound of approaching danger, and then, besides,
everybody is so kind to a person who is blind.
But you see Uncle Ike don’t care for music, and
had rather talk himself than listen, so he decided
that it was best to be stone deaf, for then he could
read and write to his friends. But of course
neither of us gave in, and the question, so far as
we are concerned, is still unsettled.”

At that moment the sound of a team was heard, and
a few minutes later Uncle Ike came upstairs, followed
by the driver of the team bearing a big basket and
a large bundle. These contained Uncle Ike’s
purchases.

“Wait a minute and I will go upstairs with you,”
called out Uncle Ike to the man. He entered the
room, and looking somewhat surprised at seeing Quincy,
he said somewhat sharply, “So you two have got
acquainted, have you? I have been waiting for
two days to introduce you.”

“I am greatly indebted to Mr. Sawyer,”
said Alice. “When he passed my door, which
was open, I thought it was you and I started forward
to meet you, but I missed my way and was walking directly
towards the fire, when Mr. Sawyer interposed.”

“I should have done the same thing had it been
me,” said Uncle Ike. “So I don’t
see as you were in any real danger.”

Quincy thought that it was noticeably evident that
the Pettengills were noted for plainness of speech.

“Here are three letters for you, Alice, and
here is one for you, Mr. Sawyer. I thought I
would bring it over to you as I met Asa Waters down
to the post office and he said you’d started
for home. I’ll be down in a few minutes,
Alice, and read your letters for you.” And
Uncle Ike showed the man the way up to his domicile.

Quincy arose, expressed his pleasure at having met
Miss Pettengill, and presuming they would meet again
at dinner, took his leave.

The letter was from Quincy’s father. It
was short, but was long enough to cause Quincy to
smother an oath, crush the letter in his hands and
throw it into the open fire. The flames touched
it, and the strong draught took it still ablaze up
the wide-mouthed chimney.

But Quincy’s unpleasant thought did not go with
it. The letter had said, “Quinnebaug stock
has dropped off five points. Foss & Follansbee
have written Miss Putnam that she must put up five
thousand dollars to cover margin. Better see
her at once and tell her the drop is only temporary,
and the stock is sure to recover.”

Quincy sat down in his easy-chair, facing the fire,
upon which he put some more wood, which snapped and
crackled.

Page 73

“I won’t go near that girl again,”
said he, with a determined look upon his face.
The next moment he had banished Lindy Putnam from his
mind, and was thinking of that other girl who was
sitting not six feet from him. He could hear
Uncle Ike’s voice, and he knew that Alice’s
letters were being read to her. Then he fell
into a reverie as the twilight shadows gathered round
him. As the room grew darker the fire grew brighter,
and in it he could seem to see a picture of a fair-haired
girl sitting in a chair and listening with evident
interest to a young man who was reading to her from
a newspaper.

The young girl placed her hand upon his arm and asked
a question. The young man dropped the paper and
gazed into the girl’s face with a look full
of tenderness, and placing one of his hands upon that
of the young girl clasped it fondly, and Quincy saw
that the face of this young man was his own.
He sat there until there came a loud rap upon the door
and Mandy’s voice called out, “Supper’s
ready.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Thecourtin’.

While Quincy was taking his first steps in Lover’s
Lane, which steps so often lead to the high road of
Matrimony, ’Zekiel Pettengill had reached the
end of his lane, which had been very long with many
devious turns, and he found himself at that point
where the next important question was to fix the day.

’Zekiel was a strong-minded, self-willed, self-reliant
young man, but in the presence of Huldy Mason he was
as big a coward as the world ever saw. She had
sent a little note to him, saying that she wished to
see him that afternoon, and he knew their fates would
be decided that day. He was hopeful, but the
most hopeful lover has spasms of uncertainty until
his lady love has said yes and yes again.

Dressed in his best, ’Zekiel knocked at Deacon
Mason’s front door. For an instant he wished
himself safe at home and debated whether he could
get round the corner of the house before the door was
opened. He turned his head to measure the distance,
but at that moment the door was opened, and Mrs. Mason’s
smiling face was before him, and her pleasant, cheery
voice said, “Come in, ’Zekiel.”

He felt reassured by this, for he argued to himself
that she would have called him Mr. Pettengill if there
had been any change in her feelings towards him.
They entered the parlor, and Mrs. Mason said, “Take
off your things and leave them right here, and go
right up and see Huldy. She is waitin’
for you. The doctor’s been and gone.
He took that plaster thing off Huldy’s arm,
says she’s all right now, only she must be keerful,
not do any heavy liftin’ with it till it gets
good and strong. He said it would be some time
before she could help me much with the housework,
so I am going to get a girl for a month or two.
I heerd your sister got home, ’Zeke. They
do say she’s blind. I am awful sorry, ’Zekiel.

Page 74

Hope she will get better of it. I am coming over
to see her just as soon as I get me my girl.
But you go right up, there’s nobody there but
Huldy. Mr. Sawyer is coming after the nurse to-morrow
morning, and she is up in the spare room trying to
catch up with her sleep. We told her there was
no use in setting up with Huldy, but she said she had
her orders from the doctor, and she wouldn’t
mind a single thing we said. But we will get
rid on her to-morrow. Now you go right up, ’Zekiel;”
and Mrs. Mason took him by the arm and saw him on his
way up the front stairs before she returned to her
work in the kitchen.

’Zekiel went upstairs deliberately, one step
at a time. His footfalls, it seemed to him, must
be heard all over the house. He paused before
Huldy’s door. He opened it a couple of inches,
when the thought struck him that he ought to knock.
He started to close the door and do so, when he heard
a faint voice say, “Come in, ’Zekiel.”
So he was still ’Zekiel to Huldy. He opened
the door and walked bravely into the room, but his
bravery forsook him when he had taken a few steps.
He had expected to find her in bed, as she had been
every day before when he had called. But there
she stood before him, the same Huldy as of old.
Not exactly the same, however, for her cheeks had
lost much of their rosy tint and there was a pensive
look to the face that was new to it, which ’Zekiel
saw, but could not understand.

There were two chairs close together before the fire.
She sat down in the left-hand one and motioned ’Zekiel
to the other, which he took.

“I thought I would find you abed,” said
’Zekiel. “I didn’t know you
were up.”

“Oh, yes,” said Huldy. “I got
up and dressed as soon as the doctor took the jacket,
that’s what he called it, off my arm. I
felt so much better I couldn’t stay in bed any
longer.”

“Well,” said ’Zekiel, “when
the schoolmaster used to tell me to take my jacket
off I didn’t feel near as well as I did before,”
and then they both laughed heartily.

They sat silent for a few moments, when Huldy, turning
her face with that sad look towards him, said, “There
is something on my mind, ’Zekiel, that I wish
I could take off as easily as the doctor did that
jacket.”

“Oh, nonsense,” cried ’Zekiel; “why
should you have anything on your mind? You are
a little bit low spirited because you have been cooped
up in bed so long.”

“No,” said Huldy, “that isn’t
it. I have wronged a person and I am afraid that
person will never fully forgive me. I am real
sorry for what I have done, and I am going to tell
the person and ask for pardon.”

“Well,” said ’Zekiel, “the
person must be pretty mean spirited if he or she don’t
forgive you after you say you are sorry, ’specially
if you promise not to do it again.”

“Oh, I shall never do it again,” said
Huldy. “Once has nearly killed me.
I suffered ten times more from that than from my broken
arm.”

Page 75

“Well,” said ’Zekiel, “if
that person don’t forgive you I don’t want
anything more to do with him.”

“Let me tell you a little story,” said
Huldy. “A little boy and girl whose homes
were not a quarter of a mile apart grew up together
in a little country town. As children they loved
each other, and as they grew older that love really
grew stronger, though not so plainly shown or spoken.
Everybody thought that one day they would be married,
though he had never asked her to be his wife.
Did you ever hear of anything like that, ’Zekiel?”

“Well,” remarked ’Zekiel, “I
have in my mind two persons whose relations were pretty
similar up to a certain point.”

“Yes,” said Huldy, eagerly, “and
that point was reached when a young man from the city,
whose father was known to be very wealthy, came to
board in her father’s house.” Huldy
looked at ’Zekiel inquiringly.

“Yes, I’ve heard of something like that,”
said ’Zekiel.

“For a time,” continued Huldy, “the
young girl was unfaithful to her old-time lover.
She thought the young man from the city was learning
to love her because he was polite and attentive to
her. She thought it would be nice to be rich
and go to the city to live, but the young man soon
undeceived her. He took her to ride one day, and
on their way home he told her he was going to leave
her father’s house. She wished to know
the reason, but he would not give it. She divined
it, however, and in her agitation lost control of
the horse she was driving. The buggy was overturned
and her arm was broken.” She looked up at
’Zekiel. His face was grave, but he nodded
for her to go on. “She stayed in bed for
three weeks, and during that time she lived over her
short life a hundred, yes, a thousand, times; she
knew that her fancy had been but a fleeting dream.
A suspicion that perhaps the young man had imagined
her feelings towards him was what had nearly broken
her heart. Supposing you were the man, ’Zekiel,
and I were the woman in this little story, could you
forgive me if I said I was sorry and would never do
it again?”

“I forgave you, Huldy, when I let him come to
board in my house. He told Uncle Ike why he left
your father’s house. The folks were talking
about you and him, but he never imagined that you
were in love with him, or thought any more about him
than you would have of any passing acquaintance.”

“I am so glad,” cried Huldy; “you
have done me more good than the doctor, ’Zekiel;”
and she dropped her head upon his shoulder.

’Zekiel was struck with an idea, “If I
am a better doctor than the other one, Huldy, I ought
to get a bigger price for my services than he does.”

Huldy looked up. “What will your price
be, Dr. Pettengill?”

“I think I shall charge,” said ’Zekiel,
“one hundred thousand dollars, and as I know
you haven’t got the money and can’t raise
it, I think I shall have to hold you for security.”

He suited the action to the word, and they sat there
so long, happy in their mutual love, that the Deacon
and his wife came upstairs and entered the room quietly.
When they saw the picture before them, thrown into
prominence by the light of the fire, the Deacon said
in a low tone to his wife, “I have thought so
all along.”

Page 76

And as Mrs. Mason looked up into her husband’s
face she said, “I am glad on’t.”

CHAPTER XIX.

JimSawyer’sfuneral.

Quincy obeyed the call to supper with alacrity.
Possibly he thought he would be the first one at the
table, but Cobb’s twins were in their places
when he entered the room. ’Zekiel came in
next, and Quincy’s quick eye discerned that
there was a look of quiet contentment on his face
which had not been there before.

Uncle Ike came down with Alice, and for the first
time since her arrival she sat beside Quincy.
For some reason or other the conversation lagged.
Quincy surmised that ’Zekiel was too happy with
his own thoughts to wish to talk, and Uncle Ike rarely
conversed during meal time. He said he could
not talk and eat at the same time, and as meal time
was for eating he proposed to give his attention to
that exclusively.

Quincy ventured a few commonplace remarks to Alice,
to which she replied pleasantly. He was at a
loss for a topic, when he remembered his last visit
to Mrs. Putnam’s and recalled his promise to
bring Alice to see her some day.

He spoke of visiting Mrs. Putnam, and Alice’s
face immediately shone with pleasure. “Dear
old Aunt Heppy! I must go and see her as soon
as I can.”

“If you can find no better escort than myself,
I trust you will command my services, unless,”
said Quincy, “your brother thinks it unsafe to
trust you with me.”

“He won’t be likely to let you drive,
Alice,” responded ’Zekiel dryly, “so
I don’t think there will be any danger.”

Quincy knew by this remark that Huldy had told ’Zekiel
the facts of the case, but he maintained his composure
and said, “Any time you wish to go, Miss Pettengill,
I am at your service.”

As they arose from the table ’Zekiel said to
his uncle, “I am coming up in your room to-night,
Uncle Ike, to see you.”

Quincy knew by this that the pleasant chat in the
dining-room beside the fireplace was to be omitted
that evening, so he went up to his own room and read
until it was time to retire.

Quincy was up early next morning. He knew his
uncle could not live long, but he wished to take the
trained nurse to Eastborough Centre, so he might have
the best of care during the short time left to him
on earth.

He found ’Zekiel at the breakfast table, and
beyond a few commonplace remarks the meal was eaten
in silence.

“Yes,” said Quincy; “I intended
to go just as soon as one of the boys could get the
team ready.”

“I’ll speak to Jim about it,” said
’Zekiel. “If you will step into the
parlor, Mr. Sawyer, I would like to have a few minutes’
talk with you.”

’Zekiel went out into the barn and Quincy walked
into the parlor, where he found a bright fire burning
on the hearth. He threw himself into an easy-chair
and awaited ’Zekiel’s return. What
was up? Could ’Zekiel and Huldy have parted,
and was ’Zekiel glad of it? Quincy, as the
saying is, passed a “bad quarter of an hour,”
for he did not like suspense. The truth, however
bitter or unpalatable, was better than uncertainty.

Page 77

’Zekiel entered the room and took a seat opposite
to Quincy. He bent forward and placed his hands
upon his knees.

“Mr. Sawyer,” said he, “I am a man
of few words, so I will come right to the point.
Huldy Mason and me are engaged to be married.”

Quincy was equal to the occasion. He arose, stepped
forward, and extended his hand. ’Zekiel
rose also and grasped it unhesitatingly. Quincy
said, “Accept my most sincere congratulations,
Mr. Pettengill. I have known Miss Mason but a
short time, but any man ought to be proud of her and
happy in her love.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sawyer,” said ’Zekiel;
“I agree with you in both the particulars you’ve
mentioned, but both of us have what we consider good
reasons for not having our engagement known in the
village just at present, and to keep it a secret we
need the assistance of a mutual friend.”

“If I might aspire to that honor,” said
Quincy, “my time and services are at your disposal.”

“That’s what I told Huldy,” said
’Zekiel, “but she was afraid that you
would be vexed at what the gossips said about you and
her; she’s mad as a hornet herself, and she
wants to teach them a lesson.”

“Personally,” said Quincy, “I don’t
care what the gossips say, but I was both sorry and
indignant that they should have referred to Miss Mason
in the way they did.”

“Well,” said ’Zekiel, “we
have hatched up a sort of a plot, and if you will
help us, all three of us will have some fun out of
it.”

“Well,” inquired Quincy, “what’s
my share in the fun?”

“It’s this,” said ’Zekiel,
“you know you used to take Huldy out to ride
with you. To help out our plan, would you be willing
to do it again?”

“Certainly,” replied Quincy. “Miss
Mason has been confined to her room so long I think
she ought to have some fresh air.”

“That’s true,” remarked ’Zekiel;
“she’s lost considerable flesh staying
in so long; but if I took her out to ride they would
jump at conclusions right off and say Huldy and ’Zekiel
have made up, and they will guess we are going to
make a match of it. Then, again,” ’Zekiel
continued, “Huldy says she’s bound to
have it out with the one that started the stories.
There’s no use mincing matters between us, because
you know as well as I do who is at the bottom of all
this tittle-tattle. Since I refused to join hands
with him to try and drive you out of town, he has
talked about me almost as bad as he has about you.
‘So,’ says Huldy to me, ’you know
he is the only teacher of music in Eastborough.
I want to take music lessons very much, and so I have
got to have him for teacher.’ Then she
said, ’’Zekiel, you leave the rest of it
to me, and we will all have some fun before we get
through.’ I expect she is going to flirt
with him, for it comes as nat’ral to her as it
does to most women.”

Quincy did not think it polite to assent to this last
remark and changed the subject by remarking, “This
is a beautiful day. I am going to drive the nurse
over to Eastborough; perhaps Miss Mason would like
to accompany us. That is, if you can trust her
with me.”

Page 78

“Oh, that’s all right,” said ’Zekiel;
“Huldy had to pay pretty dearly for getting
mad at the wrong time. Besides, I don’t
think she will want to drive horse again for a while.”

Mandy rapped on the parlor door and called out that
the team was ready.

Quincy assured ’Zekiel that he understood his
part and would play it to the best of his ability.

When he arrived at Deacon Mason’s house he found
the latter just coming out of the front gate.
As Quincy leaped from the team the Deacon came forward
and shook hands with him. “You are just
the man I want to see,” he remarked. “I’ve
paid our doctor, but I want to know what the bill is
for the Boston doctor and the nurse.”

“I don’t know yet,” said Quincy,
“but there will be nothing for you to pay.
It is my duty to settle that bill myself.”

“No,” said the Deacon firmly. “She
is my daughter, and it is my place as her father to
pay such bills, until she has a husband to pay them
for her.”

Quincy said, “Deacon Mason, when I took your
daughter out to ride it was my duty to return her
to her home without injury. I did not do so, and
I trust that you will allow me to atone for my neglect.
Remember, sir, you have lost her services for several
weeks, and the board of the nurse has been an expense
to you.”

“I prefer,” rejoined the Deacon, “that
the bill should be sent to me.”

“Well,” said Quincy, to close the discussion,
“I will ask him to send you one;” mentally
resolving, when it was sent, it would be a receipted
one.

Quincy received a hearty welcome from Mrs. Mason,
who said the nurse had her things packed and was all
ready to go. He then told Mrs. Mason that he
had a message for Miss Mason from Mr. ’Zekiel
Pettengill, and Mrs. Mason said she would send Huldy
to the parlor at once. Huldy greeted Quincy with
a happy face and without any show of confusion.

“I had a long talk with Mr. Pettengill,”
said Quincy, “and he has induced me to become
a conspirator. The first act in our comedy is
to ask you if you will ride over to Eastborough Centre
this morning with the nurse and myself, and get a
little fresh air?”

“I should be delighted,” said Huldy, “if
you can wait long enough for me to dress.”

“That’s what I came early for,”
remarked Quincy. “How long will it take
you?”

“Fifteen minutes,” said Huldy.

“It is now half-past seven,” remarked
Quincy, looking at his watch. “You mean
you will be ready by quarter of nine?”

“No,” said Huldy, with a flash of her
eyes, “I am no city lady. I am a plain,
country girl, and I mean just one-quarter of an hour.
You can time me, Mr. Sawyer;” and she ran gayly
out of the room.

Quincy looked out of the window and saw that Hiram
had put the nurse’s heavy valise on the front
seat of the carryall. The nurse herself was standing
by the side of the team, evidently uncertain which
seat to take. Quincy was quickly at her side.

Page 79

“You can sit in here, Miss Miller,” said
Quincy, pointing to one of the rear seats; and when
she was seated Quincy told Hiram to put the valise
on the seat beside her. He had no idea of having
Huldy take a back seat.

True to her promise, Huldy made her toilet in the
appointed time, and taking her seat beside Quincy,
he took up the reins. Turning to Hiram he asked,
“If I drive by Hill’s grocery and take
the road to the left, will it bring me round to the
main road to Eastborough Centre again?”

“Yaas,” said Hiram, “you take the
road where Mis’ Hawkins’s boardin’
house is on the corner. You remember that big
yellow house. You know I told you Mandy’s
mother kept it.”

“All right,” said Quincy, and off they
went.

Quincy gave a side glance at Huldy. He discovered
she was throwing a side glance at him. They both
smiled, but said nothing. He drove around the
big tree that stood in the centre of the square in
front of the grocery, which brought the team quite
close to the store platform. No one was in sight,
but just as he reached Mrs. Hawkins’s boarding
house the door opened and Obadiah Strout came out.
Huldy placed her hand on Quincy’s arm.

“Please hold up a minute, Mr. Sawyer.”

Quincy brought the horse to a standstill with a jerk
and looked straight ahead.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Strout,” said Huldy.
“Did you get the letter I sent up by Hiram last
evening about my taking music lessons?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Strout, “and I was
coming down this morning to settle on the best time
for you taking them.”

“Could you come to-morrow afternoon from two
to three?” asked Huldy.

Strout took a well-worn memorandum book from his pocket
and consulted it. “Three to four would
be the best I could do,” said he, “for
I have a lesson from half-past one to half-past two.”

“That will do just as well,” replied Huldy.
“Three to four to-morrow afternoon. Isn’t
this a beautiful day, Mr. Strout? I am taking
a little drive for my health;” and she nodded
smilingly to Strout, who had recognized Quincy as
her companion.

“That’s all, Mr. Sawyer,” said Huldy,
and they drove on.

“By thunder,” said Strout, “they
say the hair of a dog is good for his bite. Just
as soon as she got well, off she goes riding again
with the same feller who tipped the team over and
broke her arm. I guess ’Zeke Pettengill’s
chances ain’t worth much now. It beats all
how ’Zeke can let that feller board in his house,
but I suppose he does it to let us folks see that
he don’t care. Well, Huldy Mason is a bright
little girl, and I always liked her. That city
chap don’t mean to marry her, and if I don’t
make the best of my chances when I get to teaching
her music, my name ain’t Obadiah Strout, which
I guess it is.” And he walked across the
square to Hill’s grocery to smoke his morning
cigar.

On the way to Eastborough Centre Quincy wondered what
he would do with Huldy when he arrived there.
He did not care to take her to the Poorhouse, and
particularly he did not wish her to see his uncle.
Quincy was proud, but he was also sensible, and he
decided upon a course of action that would prevent
any one from saying that his pride had made him do
a foolish act.

Page 80

As they neared the Poorhouse Quincy turned to Huldy
and said, “The Jim Sawyer who has been at the
Eastborough Poorhouse for the last five years is my
father’s brother and my uncle. His story
is a very sad one. I will tell it to you some
day. He is in the last stages of consumption,
and I am taking Miss Miller over to care for him while
he lives.”

Huldy nodded, and nothing more was said until they
reached the Poorhouse. Quincy jumped out and
called to Sam, who was close at hand, to hold the
horse. Sam looked at him with a peculiar expression
that Quincy did not stop to fathom, but running up
the short flight of steps entered the room that served
as the office for the Poorhouse. Mr. Waters was
there writing at his desk. He turned as Quincy
entered.

“How is my uncle?” asked Quincy.

“He is better off than us poor mortals,”
replied Mr. Waters with a long-drawn countenance.

“What do you mean?” asked Quincy.
“Is he dead?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Waters, “he died
about four o’clock this mornin’. Sam
sat up with him till midnight, and I stayed with him
the balance of the time.”

“I am so sorry I was not here,” said Quincy.

“It wouldn’t have done any good,”
said Waters. “He didn’t know what
was going on after two o’clock, and you couldn’t
have been of any use if you’d been here.
If ’t had been daytime I should have sent over
for you. He only spoke once after I went upstairs
and that was to say that you would see to buryin’
him.”

“Yes,” said Quincy, “I will take
charge of the remains.”

“Well,” remarked Mr. Waters, “I
called in the town undertaker and he has got him all
ready.”

“When does the next train leave for Boston?”
asked Quincy, taking out his watch.

“In just twenty minutes,” Waters replied,
looking up at the clock.

“I will be back from Boston at the earliest
possible moment,” said Quincy; and before the
astonished Waters could recover himself, the young
man had left the room.

Quincy jumped into the team, grasped the reins, and
started off at full speed for Eastborough Centre.

“My uncle died this morning,” said he,
turning to Huldy, “I must go to Boston at once
to make the necessary arrangements for his funeral
He is to be buried at Amesbury with his wife and children,
so please get word to Mr. Pettengill that I shall
not be home for several days. I will get some
one at the hotel to drive you home, Miss Mason.
Only stern necessity compels me to leave you in this
way.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” said
Huldy. “I am perfectly confident that I
am able to drive this team home all by myself.”

“I never can consent to it,” said Quincy.
“If anything happened to you, your father and—­”
Huldy glanced at him. “I mean,” said
Quincy, “I should never forgive myself, and
your father would never forgive me. Your arm
is still weak, I know.”

“My arm is just as good as ever,” said
Huldy. “The doctor told me it wouldn’t
break in that place again. Besides, Mr. Sawyer,”
she said, as the hotel came in sight, “I shall
drive back just the same way we came, and there are
no hills or sharp corners, you know.” She
laughed heartily and added, “I shall enjoy it
very much, it is part of the comedy.”

Page 81

“Well,” said Quincy in an undertone, “rebellious
young woman, do as you will, and bear the consequences.
I will turn the team around so that you won’t
have any trouble, and Hiram can take it down to Mr.
Pettengill’s and deliver my message. Good-by,”
and he shook hands with her.

“We will get out here, Miss Miller,” said
he, and he helped the nurse to alight. Grasping
the heavy valise, he started at a brisk pace for the
station, and Miss Miller was obliged to run in order
to keep up with him. They boarded the train and
took their seats. The train was ahead of time
and waited for a few minutes at the station.

Quincy did not know as he sped towards Boston on his
sad errand that Miss Lindy Putnam was in the second
car behind him, bound to the same place. Nor
did he know for several days that Abner Stiles, who
drove her to the station, had seen Huldy driving towards
Mason’s Corner. Nor did he know that Strout
had told Abner of his seeing Huldy and Sawyer together.
Nor did he know that Abner whipped up his horse in
a vain attempt to overtake Huldy on her return to
Mason’s Corner. She, too, had whipped up
her horse and had reached home, and was in the house,
calling for Hiram, just as Abner turned into the square
by Hill’s grocery.

Quincy made the necessary purchases, and with the
city, undertaker returned to Eastborough Centre by
the noon train. The body was placed in a leaden
casket and Quincy and the undertaker with their sad
burden returned to Boston by the five o’clock
express.

His mother and sisters were still in New York, but
he passed the evening with his father, who approved
of all he had done and what he proposed doing.

Quincy went to Amesbury and purchased a small lot
in the cemetery. After a day’s search he
discovered the place of burial of his uncle’s
wife and children. They were disinterred, and
the four bodies were placed in the little lot.

On his return to Boston he made arrangements for two
plain marble stones for his uncle and aunt, and two
smaller ones for his little cousins, whom he had never
seen.

The directions that he left with the monument maker
and the undertaker at Amesbury were followed to the
letter. If one should pass by that little lot
he would see on one marble slab these words:

Eunice Raymond Sawyer,
Aged 29 yrs., 6 mos.

On the little slab at her feet the simple words:

Mary, Aged 4 yrs., 2 mos.

At its side another little stone bearing only these
words:

Ray, Aged 6 yrs., 8 mos.

Adhering strictly to his uncle’s request, the
other large stone bore no name, but on it were engraved
these words:

In Heaven we Know our Own.

CHAPTER XX.

A wetday.

When Quincy alighted from the train at Eastborough
Centre, after attending his uncle’s funeral,
he found the rain descending in torrents. He
hired a closed carriage and was driven to Mason’s
Corner, arriving there about ten o’clock.
He had taken his breakfast in Boston.

Page 82

When he reached the Pettengill house he saw Hiram
standing at the barn door. Bidding the driver
stop, he got out and paid his score; he then took
Hiram by the arm and led him into the barn. When
he had primed the latter with a good cigar, he said,
“Now, Hiram, I’ve been away several days
and I want to know what has been going on. You
know our agreement was that you should tell me the
whole truth and nothing but the truth. I don’t
want you to spare my feelings nor anybody else’s.
Do you understand?” said he to Hiram. Hiram
nodded. “Then go ahead,” said Quincy.

“Well, first,” said Hiram, puffing his
cigar with evident satisfaction, “they got hold
of the point that Miss Huldy drove back alone from
Eastborough Centre. Abner Stiles took Lindy Putnam
down to the station and she went to Boston on the
same train that you did. Abner tried to catch
up with Huldy, so he could quiz her, but she whipped
up her horse and got away from him.”

“Smart girl!” interjected Quincy.

“You can just bet,” said Hiram, “there
ain’t a smarter one in this town, though, of
course, I think Mandy is pretty smart, too.”

“Mandy’s all right,” said Quincy;
“go ahead.”

“Well, secondly, as the ministers say,”
continued Hiram, “Lindy Putnam told Abner when
he drove her home from the station that night that
the copper company that Mr. Sawyer told her to put
her money in had busted, and she’d lost lots
of money. That’s gone all over Mason’s
Corner, and if Abner told Asa Waters, it’s all
over Eastborough Centre by this time.”

“The whole thing is a lie,” said Quincy
hotly; “the stock did go down, but my father
told me yesterday it had rallied and would soon advance
from five to ten points. What’s the next
confounded yarn?”

“Well, thirdly,” continued Hiram, “of
course everybody knows Jim Sawyer was your uncle,
and somebody said—­you can guess who—­that
it would look better if you would pay up his back
board instead of spending so much money on a fancy
funeral and cheating the town undertaker out of a job.”

“I paid him for all that he did,” said
Quincy.

“Yes,” said Hiram, “but this is
how it is. You see the undertaker makes a contract
with the town to bury all the paupers who die during
the year for so much money. They averaged it
up and found that about three died a year, so the
town pays the undertaker on that calculation; but this
year, you see, only two have died, and there ain’t
another one likely to die before town meeting day,
which comes the first Monday in March, so, you see
the undertaker gets paid for buryin’ your uncle,
though he didn’t do it, and some one says—­you
can guess who—­that he is going to bring
the matter up in town meeting.”

Quincy smothered an exclamation and bit savagely into
his cigar.

“Anything else?” inquired he. “Have
they abused the ladies as well as me?”

“No,” said Hiram; “you see somebody—­you
know who—­is giving Huldy music lessons
and he will keep quiet about her anyway; but he says
he can’t understand how ’Zeke Pettengill
can let you board in his house and go out riding with
Huldy, unless things is up between ’Zeke and
Huldy.”

Page 83

“Well, I guess that’s about the size of
it,” said Quincy. “Now, for instance,
Hiram, you and Mandy are good friends, aren’t
you?”

“Yes,” said Hiram, “after we get
over our little difficulties we are.”

“Well,” said Quincy, “I happen to
know that ’Zekiel and Huldy have got over their
little difficulties and they are now good friends.”

“Been’t they going to get married?”
asked Hiram.

“Are you and Mandy going to get married?”
asked Quincy.

“Well, we haven’t got so far along as
to set the day exactly,” said Hiram.

“And I don’t believe ’Zekiel and
Huldy will get married any sooner than you and Mandy
will,” remarked Quincy. “But don’t
say a word about this, Hiram.”

“Mum’s the word,” replied Hiram.
“I am no speaker, but I hear a thing or two.”

“Now, Hiram,” said Quincy, “run
in and tell Mandy I’ll be in to lunch as usual,
and then come back, for I have something more to say
to you.”

Hiram did as directed, and Quincy sat and thought
the situation over. So far he had been patient
and he had borne the slings and arrows hurled at him
without making any return. The time had come to
change all that, and from now on he would take up
arms in his own defence, and even attack his opponents.

When he had reached this conclusion, Hiram reappeared
and resumed his seat on the chopping block.

Quincy asked, “In what regiment did the singing-master
go to war?”

“The same one as I did,—­th Mass.,”
replied Hiram.

“Did you go to war?” inquired Quincy.

“Well, I rather guess,” said Hiram.
“I went out as a bugler; he was a corporal,
but he got detailed for hospital duty, and we left
him behind before we got where there was any fightin’.”

“Was he ever wounded in battle?” asked
Quincy.

“One of the sick fellers in the hospital gave
him a lickin’ one day, but I don’t suppose
you’d call that a battle,” remarked Hiram.

“Well, how about that rigmarole he got off down
to the grocery store that morning?” Quincy interrogated.

“Oh, that was all poppycock,” said Hiram.
“He said that just to get even with you, when
you were telling about your grandfathers and grandmothers.”

Quincy laughed.

“Oh, I see,” said he. “Were
you ever wounded in battle, Hiram?”

“Well, I was shot onct, but not with a bullet.”

“What was it,” said Quincy, “a cannon
ball?”

“No,” said Hiram. “I never
was so thunderin’ mad in my life. When I
go to regimental reunions the boys just joke the life
out of me. You see I was blowin’ my bugle
for a charge, and the boys were goin’ ahead in
great style, when a shell struck a fence about twenty
feet off. The shell didn’t hit me, but
a piece of that darned fence came whizzin’ along
and struck me where I eat, and I had a dozen stummick
aches inside o’ half a minute. I just dropped
my bugle and clapped my hands on my stummick and yelled
so loud that the boys told me afterwards that they
were afraid I had busted my bugle.”

Page 84

Quincy laid back in his chair and laughed heartily.

“What do the boys say to you when you go to
the reunions?” he asked.

“They tell me to take a little whiskey for my
stummick’s sake,” said Hiram, “and
some of them advise me to put on a plaster, and, darn
’em, they always take me and toss me in a blanket
every time I go, and onct they made me a present of
a bottleful of milk with a piece of rubber hose on
top of it. They said it would be good for me,
but I chucked it at the feller’s head, darn
him.”

Quincy had another good laugh. Then he resumed
his usual grave expression and asked, “What
town offices does the singing-master hold?”

“Well,” said Hiram, “he is fence
viewer and hog reeve and pound keeper, but the only
thing he gets much money out of is tax collector.
He gets two per cent on about thirty thousand dollars,
which gives him about ten dollars a week on an average,
’cause he don’t get no pay if he don’t
collect.”

“Did he get a big vote for the place?”
asked Quincy.

“No,” said Hiram “he just got in
by the skin of his teeth; he had last town meetin’
two more votes than Wallace Stackpole, and Wallace
would have got it anyhow if it hadn’t been for
an unfortunate accident.”

“How was that?” asked Quincy.

“Well, you see,” said Hiram, “two
or three days before town meetin’ Wallace went
up to Boston. He got an oyster stew for dinner,
and it made him kinder sick, and some one gave him
a drink of brandy, and I guess they gave him a pretty
good dose, for when he got to Eastborough Centre they
had to help him off the train, ’cause his legs
were kinder weak. Well, ’Bias Smith, who
lives over to West Eastborough, he is the best talker
we’ve got in town meetin’. He took
up the cudgels for Wallace, and he just lammed into
those mean cusses who’d go back on a man ’cause
he was sick and took a little too much medicine.
But Abner Stiles,—­you know Abner,—­well,
he’s the next best talker to ’Bias Smith,—­he
stood up and said he didn’t think it was safe
to trust the town’s money to a man who couldn’t
go to Boston and come home sober, and that pulled over
some of the fellers who’d agreed to vote for
Wallace.”

“Has the tax collector performed his duties
satisfactorily?” asked Quincy.

“Well,” said Hiram, “Wallace Stackpole
told me the other day that he hadn’t got in
more than two-thirds of last year’s taxes.
He said the selectmen had to borrow money and there’d
be a row at the next town meetin’.”

“Well,” said Quincy, rising, “I
think I will go in and get ready for lunch. I
had a very early breakfast in Boston.”

“Did you have oyster stew?” asked Hiram.

“No,” replied Quincy, “people who
live in Boston never eat oyster stews at a restaurant.
If they did there wouldn’t be enough left for
those gentlemen who come from the country.”

He opened the door and Hiram grasped his arm.

“By Gosh! I forgot one thing,” he
cried. “You remember Tilly James, that
played the pianner at the concert?”

Page 85

“Yes,” said Quincy, “and she was
a fine player, too.”

“Well,” said Hiram, “she’s
engaged to Sam Hill, you know, down to the grocery
store. That ain’t all, old Ben James, her
father, he’s a paralytic, you know, and pretty
well fixed for this world’s goods, and he wants
Benoni to sell out his grocery when Tilly gets married
and come over and run the farm, which is the biggest
one in the town, and I heerd Abner Stiles say to ’Manuel
Howe, that he reckoned he—­you know who I
mean—­would get some fellers to back him
up and he’d buy out the grocery and get ’p’inted
postmaster. I guess that’s all;” and
Hiram started off towards Deacon Mason’s.

Quincy went to his room and prepared for the noonday
meal. While doing so he mentally resolved that
the singing-master would not be the next tax collector
if he could prevent it; he also resolved that the same
party would not get the grocery store, if he had money
enough to outbid him; and lastly he felt sure that
he had influence enough to prevent his being appointed
postmaster.

Quincy met Ezekiel at lunch. He told Quincy that
everything was working smoothly; that the singing-master
evidently thought he had the field all to himself.
He said Huldy and Alice were old friends, and Huldy
was coming over twice a week to see Alice, and so
he shouldn’t go up to Deacon Mason’s very
often.

“Where is Miss Pettengill?” said Quincy.

“Well,” replied Ezekiel, “she isn’t
used to heavy dinners at noon, so she had a lunch
up in her room. I am going over to West Eastborough
this afternoon with the boys to see some cows that
’Bias Smith has got to sell. The sun is
coming out and I guess it will be pleasant the rest
of the day.”

“’Bias Smith?” asked Quincy.

“His name is Tobias,” said Ezekiel, “but
everybody calls him ’Bias.”

“I have heard of him,” said Quincy.
“You just mention my name to him, Mr. Pettengill,
and say I am coming over some day with Mr. Stackpole
to see him.”

’Zekiel smiled. “Going to take a
hand yourself?” asked he.

“Yes,” said Quincy, “the other fellow
has been playing tricks with the pack so long that
I think I shall throw down a card or two myself, and
I may trump his next lead.”

“By the way,” said ’Zekiel, “while
you were away Uncle Ike had our piano tuned and fixed
up. It hasn’t been played since Alice went
to Boston five years ago. But the tuner who came
from Boston said it was just as good as ever.
So if you hear any noise underneath you this afternoon
you will know what it means.”

“Music never troubles me,” said Quincy,
“I play and sing myself.”

“Well, I hope you and Alice will have a good
time with the piano,” remarked ’Zekiel
as he left the room.

Quincy went back to his room and wrote a letter to
a friend in Boston, asking him to get a certified
copy of the war record of Obadiah Strout, Corporal
—­th Mass. Volunteers, and send it to
him at Eastborough Centre as soon as possible.
It was many days before that letter reached its destination.

Page 86

He then sat down in his favorite armchair and began
thinking out the details of his aggressive campaign
against the singing-master. He had disposed of
his enemy in half a dozen pitched battles, when the
sound of the piano fell upon his ear.

She was playing. He hoped she was a good musician,
for his taste in that art was critical. He had
studied the best, and he knew it when he heard it
sung or played. The piano was a good one, its
tone was full and melodious, and it was in perfect
tone.

He listened intently. He looked and saw that
he had unintentionally left the door of his room ajar.
The parlor door, too, must be open partly, or he could
not have heard so plainly. What was that she was
playing? Ah! Mendelssohn. Those “Songs
Without Words” were as familiar to him as the
alphabet. Now it is Beethoven, that beautiful
work, “The Moonlight Sonata,” she was
evidently trying to recall her favorites to mind, for
of course she could not be playing by note. Then
she strayed into a “valse” by Chopin,
and followed it with a dashing galop by some unknown
composer. “She is a classical musician,”
said Quincy to himself, as the first bars of a Rhapsodic
Hongroise by Liszt fell upon his ear. “I
hope she knows some of the old English ballads and
the best of the popular songs,” thought Quincy.

As if in answer to his wish she played that sterling
old song, “Tis but a Little Faded Flower,”
and Quincy listened with pleasure to the pure, sweet,
soprano voice that rang out full and strong and seemed
to reach and permeate every nook and corner in the
old homestead.

Quincy could stand it no longer. He stepped quietly
to his door, opened it wide, and listened with delight
to the closing lines of the song.

Then she sang that song that thrilled the hearts of
thousands of English soldiers in the Crimea on the
eve of the battle of Inkermann, “Annie Laurie,”
and it was with difficulty that Quincy refrained from
joining in the chorus. Surely Annie Laurie could
have been no purer, no sweeter, no more beautiful,
than Alice Pettengill; and Quincy felt that he could
do and die for the girl who was singing in the parlor,
as truly as would have the discarded suitor who wrote
the immortal song.

But Quincy was destined to be still more astonished.
Alice played a short prelude that seemed familiar
to him, and then her voice rang out the words of that
beautiful duet that Quincy had sung with Lindy Putnam
at the singing-master’s concert. Yes, it
was Jewell’s “Over the Bridge.”
This was too much for Quincy. He went quietly
down the stairs and looked in at the parlor door,
which was wide open. Alice was seated at the
piano, and again the sun, in its westward downward
course, shone in at the window, and lighted up her
crown of golden hair. This time she had reversed
the colors which she evidently knew became her so well,
and wore a dress of light pink, while a light blue
knitted shawl, similar to its pink companion, lay
upon the chair beside her.

Page 87

When she reached the duet Quincy did not attempt to
control himself any further, but joined in with her,
and they sang the piece together to the end.

Alice turned upon the piano stool, faced the door
and clapped her hands.

“That was capital, Mr. Sawyer. I didn’t
know that you sang so well. In fact, I didn’t
know that you sang at all.”

“How did you know it was I?” said Quincy,
as he advanced towards her. “It is a little
cool here, Miss Pettengill. Allow me to place
your shawl about you;” and, suiting the action
to the word, he put it gently over her shoulders.

“Yes,” said Alice, “I put it on
when I first came down. It interfered with my
playing and I threw it into the chair.”

“May I take the chair, now that it is unoccupied?”
he asked.

“Yes,” said Alice, “if you will
give me your word of honor that you did not try to
make me think it was cold: here, so that you could
get the chair.”

Quincy replied with a laugh, “If I did my reward
is a great return for my power of invention, but I
assure you I was thinking of your health and not of
the chair, when I tendered my services.”

“You are an adept in sweet speeches, Mr. Sawyer.
You city young men all are; but our country youth,
who are just as true and honest, are at a great disadvantage,
because they cannot say what they think in so pleasing
a way.”

“I hope you do not think I am insincere,”
remarked Quincy, gravely.

“Not at all,” said Alice, “but I
have not answered your question. How did I know
that it was you? You must remember, Mr. Sawyer,
that those who cannot see have their hearing accentuated,
and the ear kindly sends those pictures to the brain
which unfortunately the eye cannot supply.”

“I have enjoyed your playing and singing immensely,”
said Quincy. “Let us try that duet again.”

They sang it again, and then they went from piece
to piece, each suggesting her or his favorite, and
it was not till Mandy’s shrill voice once more
called out with more than usual force and sharpness,
“Supper’s ready,” that the piano
was closed and Quincy, for the first time taking Alice’s
hand in his, led her from the parlor, which was almost
shrouded in darkness, into the bright light of the
dining-room, where they took their accustomed seats.
They ate but little, their hearts were full of the
melody that each had enjoyed so much.

CHAPTER XXI

Somemorenewideas.

When Ezekiel and Cobb’s twins returned from
West Eastborough, they said the air felt like snow.
Mandy had kept some supper for them. Ezekiel
said they had supper over to Eastborough Centre, but
the home cooking smelled so good that all three sat
down in the kitchen and disposed of what Mandy had
provided.

The other members of the Pettengill household were
in their respective rooms. Uncle Ike was reading
a magazine. Alice had not retired, for Mandy
always came to her room before she did so to see that
her fire was all right for the night. Alice was
a great lover of music and she had enjoyed the afternoon
almost as much as Quincy had. She could not help
thinking what musical treats might be in store for
them, and then the thought came to her how she would
miss him when he went back to Boston.

Page 88

In the next room, Quincy was pursuing a similar line
of thought. He was thinking of the nice times
that Alice and he could have singing together.
To be sure he wished to do nothing to make his father
angry, for Quincy appreciated the power of money.
He knew that with his mother’s third deducted,
his fathers estate would give him between two and
three hundred thousand dollars. He had some money
in his own right left him by a fond aunt, his father’s
sister, the income from which gave him a good living
without calling upon his father.

He knew his father wished him to become a lawyer,
and keep up the old firm which was so well known in
legal and business circles, but Quincy in his heart
realized that he was not equal to it, and the future
had little attraction for him, if it were to be passed
in the law offices of Sawyer, Crowninshield, & Lawrence.
At any rate his health was not fully restored and
he determined to stay at Mason’s Corner as long
as he could do so without causing a break in the friendly
relations existing between his father and himself.
His present income was enough for his personal needs,
but it was not sufficient to also support a Mrs. Quincy
Adams Sawyer.

What Ezekiel had prophesied came true. No one
knew just when the storm began, but the picture that
greeted Mandy Skinner’s eyes when she came down
to get breakfast was a great contrast to that of the
previous day.

The snow had fallen steadily in large, heavy flakes,
the road and the fields showed an even, unbroken surface
of white; the tops of the taller fences were yet above
the snow line, each post wearing a white cap.
As the morning advanced the storm increased, the wind
blew, and great drifts were indications of its power.
The thick clouds of white flakes were thrown in every
direction, and only dire necessity, it seemed, would
be a sufficient reason for leaving a comfortable fireside.

Mandy and Mrs. Crowley were busily engaged in preparing
the morning meal, when a loud scratching at a door,
which led into a large room that was used as an addition
to the kitchen, attracted their attention. In
bounded Swiss, the big St. Bernard dog belonging to
Uncle Ike. At Uncle Ike’s special request
Swiss had not been banished to the barn or the wood-shed,
but had been allowed to sleep on a pallet in the corner
of the large room referred to.

Swiss was a great favorite with Mandy, and he was
a great friend of hers, for Swiss was very particular
about his food, and he had found Mandy to be a much
better cook than Uncle Ike had been; besides the fare
was more bounteous at the Pettengill homestead than
down at the chicken coop, and Swiss had gained in
weight and strength since his change of quarters.

After breakfast Uncle Ike came into the kitchen and
received a warm welcome from Swiss. Uncle Ike
told Mandy and Mrs. Crowley the well-known story of
the rescues of lost travellers made by the St. Bernard
dogs on the snow-clad mountains of Switzerland.
When Mrs. Crowley learned that Swiss had come from
a country a great many miles farther away from America
than Ireland was, he rose greatly in her estimation
and she made no objection to his occupying a warm
corner of the kitchen.

Page 89

About noon, when the storm was at its very worst,
Mandy, who was looking out of the kitchen window,
espied something black in the road about halfway between
Deacon Mason’s and the Pettengill house.
She called Mrs. Crowley to the window and asked her
what she thought it was.

“That’s aisy,” said Mrs. Crowley,
“It’s a man coming down the road.”

“What can bring a man out in such a storm as
this?” asked Mandy.

“Perhaps he is going for the docther,”
remarked Mrs. Crowley.

“Then he would be going the other way,”
asserted Mandy.

“He’s a plucky little divil anyway,”
said Mrs. Crowley.

“That’s so,” said Mandy. “He
is all right as long as he keeps on his feet, but
if he should fall down—­”

At that moment the man did fall down or disappear
from sight. Mandy pressed her face against the
window pane and looked with strained eyes. He
was up again, she could see the dark clothing above
the top of the snow.

What was that! A cry? The sound was repeated.

“I do believe the man is calling for help,”
cried Mandy.

She rushed to the kitchen door and opened it.
A gust of snow swept into the room, followed by a
stream of cold, chilling air. Swiss awoke from
his nap and lifted, his head. Despite the storm,
Mandy stood at the door and screamed “Hello!”
with her sharp, strident voice. Could she believe
her ears? Through the howling storm came a word
uttered in a voice which her woman’s heart at
once recognized. The word was “Mandy,”
and the voice was Hiram’s.

“What on earth is he out in this storm for?”
said Mandy to herself. She called back in response,
“Hello! Hello! Hello!” and once
more her own name was borne to her through the beating,
driving storm.

She shut the door and resumed her post at the window.
Hiram was still struggling manfully against the storm
and had made considerable progress.

“More fool he,” remarked Mrs. Crowley,
“to be out in a storm like this.”

“Get some cider, Mrs. Crowley,” said Mandy,
“and put it on the stove. He will need
a good warm drink when he gets here.”

“If he was a son of mine he’d get a good
warmin’,” said Mrs. Crowley, as she went
down cellar to get the cider.

Mandy still strained her eyes at the window.
The dark form was still visible, moving slowly through
the snow. At that moment a terrific storm of
wind struck the house; it made every window and timber
rattle; great clouds of snow were swept up from the
ground to mingle with those coming from above, and
the two were thrown into a whirling eddy that struck
the poor traveller and took him from his feet, covering
him from sight. Mandy rushed to the door and
opened it. This time she did not scream “Hello.”
The word this time was “Hiram! He is lost!
He is lost!” she cried. “His strength
has given out; but what shall I do? I could not
reach him if I tried. Oh, Hiram! Hiram!”
and the poor girl burst into tears. She would
call Mr. Pettengill; she would call Cobb’s twins;
she would call Mr. Sawyer; one of them would surely
go to his assistance.

Page 90

She turned, and to her surprise found Swiss by her
side, looking up at her with his large, intelligent
eyes. Quick as lightning, Uncle Ike’s story
came back to her mind. She patted Swiss on the
head, and pointed out into the storm.

Not another word was needed. With a bound Swiss
went into the snow and rapidly forward in the direction
of the road. Mandy was obliged to close the door
again and resume her place at the window. How
her heart beat! How she watched the dog as he
ploughed his way through the drifts? He must
be near the place. Yes, he is scratching and digging
down into the snow. Now the dark form appears
once more. Yes, Hiram is on his feet again and
man and dog resume their fight with the elements.

It seemed an age to Mandy, but it was in reality not
more than five minutes, before Hiram and Swiss reached
the kitchen door and came into the room.

“Come out into the back room,” said Mandy
to Hiram. “I don’t want this snow
all over my kitchen floor.” So Hiram and
Swiss were taken into the big room and in a short
time came back in presentable condition.

“Now, Mr. Maxwell, if you have recovered the
use of your tongue, will you kindly inform me what
sent you out in such a storm as this?”

“Well,” replied Hiram, “I reckoned
I’d git down kinder early in the mornin’
and git back afore dark.”

“That’s all right,” said Mandy;
“but that don’t tell me what you are out
for, anyway.”

“Well, you didn’t suppose,” said
Hiram, “that I could go all day long without
seein’ you, did yer, Mandy?”

Mrs. Crowley chuckled to herself and went into the
side room. Even Swiss seemed to recognize that
two were company and he followed Mrs. Crowley and
resumed his old resting place in the corner on the
pallet.

As Mrs. Crowley went about her work, she chuckled
again, and said to herself, “It’s a weddin’
I’ll be goin’ to next time in place of
a funeral.”

Upstairs other important events were taking place.
Quincy had gone to his room directly after breakfast,
and looked out upon the wild scene of storm with a
sense of loneliness that had not hitherto oppressed
him. Why should he be lonely? Was he not
in the same house with her, with only a thin wall
of wood and plaster between them? Yes, but if
that wall had been of granite one hundred feet thick,
it could not have shut him off more effectually from
seeing her lovely face and hearing her sweet voice.

There came a sharp rap at the door.

“Come in,” called out Quincy.

“Ah!” said Uncle Ike as he entered, “I
am glad to see you have a good fire. The snow
has blown down into Alice’s room and her fire
is out. Will you let her step in here for a few
moments, Mr. Sawyer, until ’Zeke and I get the
room warm again?”

“Why, certainly,” replied Quincy.
“I am only too happy—­”

But Uncle Ike was off, and returned in a few moments
leading Alice. Quincy placed a chair for her
before the fire. This cold wintry day she wore
a morning dress of a shade of red which, despite its
bright color, seemed to harmonize with the golden
hair and to take the place of the sun, which was not
there to light it up.

Page 91

“If Miss Pettengill prefers,” said Quincy,
“I can make myself comfortable in the dining-room,
and she can have my room to herself.”

He had started this speech to Uncle Ike, who left
the room abruptly in the middle of it, and Quincy’s
closing words fell on Alice’s ears alone.

“Why, certainly not,” said Alice; “sit
down, Mr. Sawyer, and we will talk about something.
Don’t you think it is terrible?” As Quincy
was contemplating his fair visitor, he could hardly
be expected to say “yes” to her question.
“Perhaps you enjoy it?” said she.

“Why, yes,” said Alice. “What
else did you think I was talking about?”

Quincy, cool and self-possessed as he invariably was,
was a trifle embarrassed.

Turning to Alice he said, “I see, Miss Pettengill,
that I must make you a frank statement in order that
you may retain your respect for me. I know you
will pardon me for not hearing what you said, and for
what I am about to say; but the fact is, I was wondering
whether you have had the best advice and assistance
that the medical science of to-day can afford you
as regards your eyes.”

“It is very kind of you, Mr. Sawyer, to think
of me, and my trouble, and I will answer you in the
same friendly way in which you have spoken. I
was taken sick one morning just as I was eating my
breakfast I never felt better in my life than I did
that morning, but the pain in my side was so intense,
so agonizing, that by the time I reached my room and
threw myself on the bed, physically I was a complete
wreck. A doctor was called at once and he remained
with me from eight o’clock until noon before
I became comfortable. I thought I was going to
get better right off, or I should have written to
’Zekiel. Two other attacks, each more severe
than the one preceding, followed the first, and I was
so sick that writing, or telling any one else what
to write, or where to write, was impossible.
Then I began slowly to recover, but I was very weak
and what made me feel worse than ever was the fact
that the trouble with my eyes, which before my illness
I had attributed to nearsightedness, was now so marked
that I could not see across the room. I could
not even see to turn a spoonful of medicine from a
bottle on the table beside my bed. The Pettengills,
Mr. Sawyer, are a self-reliant race, and I concluded
in my own mind that the trouble with my eyes was due
to my illness, and that when I recovered from that,
they would get well; but they did not. I was
able, physically, to resume my work, but I could not
see to read or write. I sent for my employer
and told him my condition. He advised me to consult
an oculist at once. In fact, he got a carriage
and took me to one himself. The oculist said
that the treatment would require at least three months;
so my employer told me I had better come home, and
that when I recovered I could have my place back again.
He is a fine, generous-hearted man and I should be
very miserable if I thought I was going to lose my
place.”

Page 92

“But what did the oculist say was the trouble
with your eyes?” Quincy asked.

“He didn’t tell me,” replied Alice.
“He may have told my employer. He gave
me some drops to put in my eyes three times a day;
and a little metal tube with a cover to it like the
top of a pepper box; on the other end is a piece of
rubber tubing, with a glass mouthpiece attached to
it”

“How do you use that?” asked Quincy.

Alice continued, “I hold the pepper box in front
of my wide-opened eye; then I put the glass mouthpiece
in my mouth and blow, for a certain length of time.
I don’t know how long it is. It seems as
though a thousand needles were driven into my eyeball.
The drops make me cry; but the little tube brings
the tears in torrents.”

“Isn’t that harsh treatment?” asked
Quincy, as he looked at the beautiful blue but sightless
eyes that were turned towards him.

“No,” said Alice with a laugh, “the
pain and the tears are like an April shower, for both
soon pass away.”

At this moment Uncle Ike entered the room and Ezekiel’s
steps were heard descending the stairs. Uncle
Ike said, “We have got it started and ’Zeke’s
gone down to bring up a good stock of wood. If
you have no objection, Mr. Sawyer, I will sit down
here a few minutes. Don’t let me interrupt
your conversation.”

“I hope you will take a part in it,” said
Quincy. “You put a lot of new ideas into
my head the first time I came to see you, and perhaps
you may have some more new ones for me to-day.
Miss Pettengill was just saying she would feel miserable
if she lost her situation.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said Uncle Ike.
“The Pettengills are not afraid to work.
If a man is obliged to earn his living by the sweat
of his brow, I don’t see why woman shouldn’t
do the same thing.”

“But the home is woman’s sphere,”
said Quincy.

“Bosh!” cried Uncle Ike.

“Why, Uncle!” cried Alice.

“Oh, Mr. Sawyer understands me!” said
Uncle Ike. “In the Middle Ages, when women
occupied the highest position that has fallen to her
lot since the days of Adam, the housework was done
by menials and scullions. Has the world progressed
when woman is pulled down from her high estate and
this life of drudgery is called her sphere? Beg
your pardon, Mr. Sawyer, but there should be no more
limit fixed to the usefulness of woman than there
is to the usefulness of man.”

“But,” persisted Alice, “I don’t
think Mr. Sawyer means that exactly. He means
a woman should stay at home and look after her family.”

“Well,” said Uncle Ike, “so should
the man. I am inclined to think if the father
spent more time at home, it would be for the advantage
of both sons and daughters.”

“But,” said Quincy, “do you think
it is for the best interests of the community that
woman should force her way into all branches of industry
and compete with man for a livelihood?”

Page 93

“Why not?” said Uncle Ike. “In
the old days when they didn’t work, for they
didn’t know how and didn’t want to, because
they thought it was beneath them, if a man died, his
wife and children became dependent upon some brother
or sister or uncle or aunt, and they were obliged to
provide for them out of their own small income or savings.
In those days it was respectable to be genteelly poor,
and starve rather than work and live on the fat of
the land. Nothing has ever done so much to increase
the self-respect of woman, and add to her feeling of
independence, as the knowledge of the fact that she
can support herself.” Alice bowed her head
and covered her eyes with her hand. “There’s
nothing personal in what I say,” said Uncle
Ike. “I am only talking on general principles.”

Quincy yearned to say something against Uncle Ike’s
argument, but how could he advance anything against
woman’s work when the one who sat before him
was a workingwoman and was weeping because she could
not work? There was one thing he could do, he
could change the subject to one where there was an
opportunity for debate. So he said, “Well,
Mr. Pettengill, I presume if you are such an ardent
advocate of woman’s right or even duty to work,
that you are also a supporter of her right to vote.”

“That does not follow,” replied Uncle
Ike. “To be self-reliant, independent,
and self-supporting is a pleasure and a duty, and adds
to one’s self-respect. As voting is done
at the present day, I do not see how woman can take
part in it and maintain her self-respect. Improvements
no doubt will be made in the manner of voting.
The ballot will become secret, and the count will
not be disclosed until after the voting is finished.
The rum stores will be closed on voting day and an
air of respectability will be given to it that it does
not now possess. It ought to be made a legal
holiday.”

“Granted,” said Quincy, “but what
has that to do with the question of woman’s
right to vote?”

“Woman has no inherent right to vote,”
said Uncle Ike. “The ballot is a privilege,
not a right. Why, I remember reading during the
war that young soldiers, between eighteen and twenty-one
years of age, claimed the ballot as a right, because
they were fighting for their country. If voting
is a right, what argument could be used against their
claim?”

“I remember,” added Quincy, “that
they argued that ’bullets should win ballots.’
Do you think any one should vote who cannot fight?”
asked Quincy.

“If he does not shirk his duty between eighteen
and forty-five,” said Uncle Ike, “he should
not be deprived of his ballot when he is older; but
the question of woman’s voting does not depend
upon her ability to fight. The mother at home
thinking of her son, the sister thinking of her brother,
the wife thinking of her husband, are as loyally fighting
for their native land as the soldiers in the field,
and no soldier is braver than the hospital nurse,
who, day after day and night after night, watches
by the bedsides of the wounded, the sick, and the dying.
No, Mr. Sawyer, it is not a question of fighting or
bravery.”

Page 94

During the discussion Alice had dried her eyes and
was listening to her uncle’s words. She
now asked a question, “When will women vote,
Uncle?”

“When it is deemed expedient for them to do
so,” replied Uncle Ike. “The full
privilege will not be given all at once. They
will probably be allowed to vote on some one matter
in which they are deeply interested. Education
and the rum question are the ones most likely to be
acted upon first. But the full ballot will not
come, and now I know Alice will shake her head and
say, ‘No!’ I repeat it—­the full
ballot will not come for woman until our social superstructure
is changed. Woman will not become the political
equal of man until she is his social and industrial
equal; and until any contract of whatever nature made
by a man and a woman may be dissolved by them by mutual
consent, without their becoming criminals in the eye
of the law, or outcasts in the eyes of society.”

At this moment Ezekiel looked in the door and said,
“Alice’s room is nice and warm now.”
Advancing, he took her hand and led her from the room.
Uncle Ike thanked Quincy for his kindness and followed
them. Quincy sat and thought. The picture
that his mind drew placed the woman who had just left
his room in a large house, with servants at her command.
She was the head of the household, but no menial nor
scullion. She did not work, because he was able
and willing to support her. She did not vote,
because she felt with him that at home was her sphere
of usefulness; and then Quincy thought that what would
make this possible was money, money that not he but
others had earned, and he knew that without this money
the question could not be solved as his mind had pictured
it; and he reflected that all women could not have
great houses and servants and loving husbands to care
for them, and he acknowledged to himself that his
solution was a personal, selfish one and not one that
would answer for the toiling million’s of the
working world.

CHAPTER XXII.

Afterthegreatsnowstorm.

Mandy was, of course, greatly pleased inwardly because
Hiram had come through such a great storm to see her,
but, woman-like, she would not show it.

So she said to Hiram, “Your reason is a very
good one, and of course I am greatly flattered, but
there must be something else besides that. Now,
what have you got to tell me?”

“Well, the fact is, Mandy, I’ve got two
things on my mind. One of ’em is a secret
and t’other isn’t. I meant to have
told you yesterday; but Mr. Sawyer kept me busy till
noon, and the Deacon kept me busy all the afternoon,
and I was too tired to come over last night.”

“Well,” said Mandy, “tell me the
secret first. If the other one has kept so long
it won’t spoil if it’s kept a little longer.”

Hiram had kept his eyes on the stove since taking
his seat, and he then remarked, “I am afraid
that cider will spoil unless I get a drink of it pretty
soon.”

Page 95

“Well, I declare,” cried Mandy, “if
I didn’t forget to give it to you, after sending
Mrs. Crowley down stairs for it, when you was out there
in the road.”

“That’s all right,” said Hiram,
as he finished the mugful she passed him, and handed
it back to be refilled. “That sort o’
limbers a feller’s tongue a bit. Well,
the secret is,” said Hiram, lowering his voice,
“that when Huldy saw me gettin’ ready to
go out, sez she, ’Where are you goin’?’
‘Over to Mr. Pettengill’s,’ sez I.
Then sez she, ’Will you wait a minute till I
write a note?’ ‘Certainly,’ sez I.
And when she brought me the note, sez she, ’Please
give that to Mr. Pettengill and don’t let anybody
else see it.’ Then sez I to her, ‘No,
ma’am;’ but I sez to myself, ‘Nobody
but Mandy.’” And Hiram took from an inside
pocket an envelope, addressed to Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill,
and showed it to Mandy. Then he put it back quickly
in his pocket.

“Well, what of that?” asked Mandy.
“That’s no great secret.”

“Well, not in itself,” said Hiram; “but
I am willing to bet a year’s salary agin a big
red apple that those two people have made up and are
engaged reg’lar fashion.”

“You don’t say so,” cried Mandy,
“what makes you think so?”

“Well, a number of things,” said Hiram.
“I overheard the Deacon say to Huldy, ‘It
will be pretty lonesome for us one of these days,’
and then you see Mrs. Mason, she is just as good as
pie to me all the time, and that shows something has
pleased her more than common; and then you see Huldy
has that sort of look about her that girls have when
their market’s made, and they feel so happy
that they can’t help showing it. You see,
Mandy, I’m no chicken. I’ve had lots
of experience.”

What Mandy might have said in reply to this remark
will never be known, for at this juncture Ezekiel
entered the room and passed through on his way to
the wood-shed.

“Now’s my time,” said Hiram, and
he arose and followed him out.

Ezekiel was piling up some wood which he was to take
to Alice’s room, when Hiram came up beside him
and slyly passed him the note. Then Hiram looked
out of the wood-shed window at the storm, which had
lost none of its fury, while Ezekiel read the note.

“Are you going home soon?” asked Ezekiel.

“Well, I guess I’ll try it again,”
said Hiram, “as soon as I get warm and kinder
limbered up.”

“I guess I’ll go back with you,”
said Ezekiel. “We will take Swiss with
us; two men and a dog ought to be enough for a little
snowstorm like this.”

“You won’t find it a little one,”
said Hiram, “when you get out in the road, but
I guess the three on us can pull through.”

Ezekiel went upstairs with the wood and Hiram resumed
his seat before the kitchen fire.

“What did I tell you?” said Hiram to Mandy.
“’Zeke’s going back with me.
She has writ him to come over and see her. Now
you see if you don’t lose your apple.”

Page 96

“I didn’t bet,” said Mandy; “but
what was that other thing you were going to tell me
that was no secret?”

“Oh, that’s about another couple,”
said Hiram. “Tilly James is engaged.”

“Well, it’s about time,” said Mandy.
“Which one of them?”

“Samuel Hill,” replied Hiram, “and
she managed it fust rate. You know the boys have
been flocking round her for more than a year.
Old Ben James, her pa, told me he’d got to put
in a new hitchin’ post. You see, there
has been Robert Wood and ’Manuel Howe and Arthur
Scates and Cobb’s twins and Ben Bates and Sam
Hill, but Samuel was the cutest one of the lot.”

“Why, what did he do that was bright?”
asked Mandy.

“Well,” replied Hiram, “you see,
Tilly sot down and writ invites to all the boys that
had been sparkin’ ’round her to come to
see her the same night. She gave these invites
to her brother Bill to deliver. Well, Sam Hill
met him, found out what he was about, and kinder surmised
what it all meant. Wall, the night came ’round
and Sam Hill was the only one that turned up at the
time app’inted. After talkin’ about
the weather, last year’s crops, and spring plantin’,
Sam just braced up and proposed, and Tilly accepted
him on the spot.”

“Where were the other fellers?” asked
Mandy. “I always surmised that she thought
more of Ben Bates than she did of Sam Hill.”

“Well, it didn’t come out till a couple
of days afterwards,” said Hiram. “You
see, the shortest way to old James’s place is
to go over the mill race, and all of the fellers but
Sam Hill went that way, and the joke of it was that
they all fell over into the river and got a duckin’.”

“Well,” said Mandy, “they must have
been drinking. Tilly is well rid of the whole
lot of them. Why, I’ve walked over that
log time and time again.”

“Well, they hadn’t been drinkin’,”
said Hiram. “You see it was pretty dark
and they didn’t get on to the fact that the log
was greased till it was kinder too late to rectify
matters.”

“And did Sam Hill do that?” asked Mandy.

“He did,” said Hiram; and he burst into
a loud laugh, in which Mandy joined.

The laughing was quickly hushed as the kitchen door
opened and Ezekiel entered, warmly dressed for his
fight with the snow and carrying a heavy cane in his
hand.

“Call the dog, Hiram,” said Ezekiel, “and
we’ll start. Mandy, tell Jim and Bill to
come over to Deacon Mason’s for me about four
o’clock, unless it looks too bad; if it does
they needn’t try it till to-morrow morning.”

“All ready,” said he to Hiram, who was
patting Swiss’s head, and off they started.

Again Mandy went to the window and watched the progress
of the travellers. Mrs. Crowley came into the
kitchen and seeing Mandy at the window quietly turned
out a mug of the hot cider and drank it. She then
approached Mandy and said, “What was all the
laughin’ about? I like a good joke myself.”

Page 97

Mandy said, “Oh, he was telling me about a girl
that invited all her fellers to come and see her the
same evening, and only one of them got there because
he greased the log over the mill race, and all the
rest of them fell into the water.”

“It was a mane trick,” said Mrs. Crowley.
“Now, when all the boys were after me, for I
was a good lookin’ girl once, Pat Crowley, he
was me husband, had a fight on hand every night for
a fortnight and all on account of me; and they do
say there were never so many heads broken in the County
of Tipperary on account of one girl since the days
of St. Patrick.”

Mandy had paid but little attention to Mrs. Crowley’s
speech. She was too busy watching the travellers.
Mrs. Crowley filled and emptied the mug once more.

The last potation was too much for her equilibrium,
and forgetting the step that led from the kitchen
to the side room, she lost her balance and fell prone
upon the floor. Her loud cries obliged Mandy to
turn from the window, but not until she had seen that
the travellers had reached the fence before Deacon
Mason’s house, and she knew they were safe for
the present. Mrs. Crowley was lifted to her feet
by Mandy. The old woman declared that she was
“kilt intirely,” but Mandy soon learned
the cause of the accident, and returning to the kitchen
closed the door and continued her morning duties.

Before Ezekiel left the house he had interrupted Quincy’s
meditations by knocking on his door, and when admitted
told him that he had had a letter from Huldy.

“She is kind of lonesome,” he said, “and
wants me to come over to see her.”

“But it is a terrible storm,” said Quincy,
looking out of the window.

“Oh,” said Ezekiel, “we’ll
be all right! Hiram is going with me, and we
are going to take Swiss along with us. Now, Mr.
Sawyer, I am going to ask you to do me and Alice a
favor. Uncle Ike is upstairs busy reading, and
if you will kinder look out for Alice till I get back
I shall be greatly obliged.”

Quincy promised and Ezekiel departed.

Quincy thought the fates had favored him in imposing
upon him such a pleasant task. But where was
she, and what could he do to amuse her? Then
he thought, “We can sing together as we did yesterday.”

He went down stairs to the parlor, thinking she might
be there, but the room was empty. The fire was
low, but the supply of wood was ample, and in a short
time the great room was warm and comfortable.
Quincy seated himself at the piano, played a couple
of pieces and then sang a couple; he did not think
while singing the second song that he had possibly
transcended propriety, but when he sang the closing
lines of “Alice, Where Art Thou?” it suddenly
dawned upon him, and, full of vexation, he arose and
walked to the window and looked out upon the howling
storm.

Suddenly he heard a sweet voice say, “I am here.”
And then a low laugh reached his ear.

Page 98

Turning, he saw Alice standing in the middle of the
room, while Mandy’s retreating figure showed
who had been her escort. Her brother Ezekiel
had rigged a bell wire from her room to the kitchen,
so that she could call Mandy when she needed her assistance.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Pettengill,”
said Quincy, advancing towards her. “The
song has always been a favorite of mine, but I never
thought of its personal application until I reached
the closing words. I trust you do not think I
was so presuming as to—­”

Alice smiled and said, “The song is also a favorite
one of mine, Mr. Sawyer, and you sang it beautifully.
No apologies are needed, for the fact is I was just
saying to myself, ‘Mr. Sawyer, where are you?’
for ’Zekiel told me that he was going to speak
to you and ask you to help me drive away those lonesome
feelings that always come to me on a day like this.
I cannot see the storm, but I can hear it and feel
it.”

As Quincy advanced towards her he saw she held several
sheets of paper in her hand.

“Very prettily spoken,” said Alice, as
Quincy led her to a seat by the fire, and took one
himself. “I am going to confess to you,”
said she, “one of my criminal acts. I am
going to ask you to sit as judge and mete out what
you consider a suitable punishment for my offence.”

“What crime have you committed?” asked
Quincy gravely.

Alice laughed, shook the papers she held in her hand,
and said, “I have written poetry.”

“The crime is a great one,” said Quincy.
“But if the poetry be good it may serve to mitigate
your sentence. Are those the evidences of your
crime you hold in your hand, Miss Pettingill?”

“Yes,” she answered, as she passed a written
sheet to him; “I wrote them before my eyes failed
me. Perhaps you will find it hard to read them.
Which one is that?” she asked.

“It is headed, ‘On the Banks of the Tallahassee,’”
replied Quincy.

“Oh!” cried Alice, “I didn’t
write that song myself. A gentleman friend, who
is now dead, was the author of it. But he couldn’t
write a chorus and he asked me to do it for him.
The idea of the chorus is moonlight on the river.”

“Shall I read it?” asked Quincy.

“Only the chorus part, if you please,”
replied Alice, “and be as lenient as you can,
good Mr. Judge, for that was my first offence.”

Quincy, in a smooth, even voice, read the following
words:

The moon’s bright rays,
In a silver maze,
Fall
on the rushing river;
Each ray of light
Like an arrow white
Drawn
from a crystal quiver.
They romp and play,
In a wond’rous way,
On
tree and shrub and flower;
And fill the night
With a radiant light,
That
falls like a silver shower.

Page 99

“You do not say anything,” said Alice,
as Quincy finished reading and remained silent.

He replied, “You have conferred judicial functions
upon me and a judge does not give his opinion until
the evidence is all in.”

“Ah! I see,” said Alice. “My
knowledge of metrical composition,” she continued,
“is very limited. What I know of it I learned
from an old copy of Fowler’s Grammar that I
bought at Burnham’s on School Street soon after
I went to Boston. I have always called what you
just read a poem. Is it one?” she asked,
looking up with a smile.

“Oh! Mr. Judge,” laughing outright
“you have given aid and comfort to the prisoner
before the evidence was all in.”

And Quincy was forced to laugh heartily at the acuteness
she had shown in forcing his opinion from him prematurely.”

“Now, this one,” said Alice, “I
call a song. I know which one it is by the size
and thickness of the paper.” And she handed
him a foolscap sheet.

Quincy took it and glanced over it a moment or two
before he spoke, Alice leaning forward and listening
intently for the first sound of his voice. Then
Quincy uttered those ever pleasing words, “Sweet,
Sweet Home,” and delivered, with great expression,
the words of the song.

“You read it splendidly,” cried Alice,
with evident delight. “Would it be presuming
on your kindness if I asked you to read the refrain
and chorus once more, Mr. Sawyer?”

“I shall enjoy reading it again myself,”
remarked Quincy, as he proceeded to comply with Alice’s
pleasantly worded request.

Refrain:

There is no place like home,
they say,
No matter where it be;
The lordly mansion of the rich,
The hut of poverty.
The little cot, the tenement,
The white-winged ship at sea;
The heart will always seek its home,
Wherever it may be.

Chorus:

Sweet, sweet home!
To that sweet place where youth was passed our
thoughts will turn;
Sweet, sweet home!
Will send the blood to flaming face, and hearts
will burn.
Sweet, sweet home!
It binds us to our native land where’er
we roam,
No land so fair, no sky so blue,
As those we find when back we come to sweet, sweet
home!

“Of course you know that lovely song, ’Juanita’?”
said Alice.

“Certainly,” said Quincy, and he sang
the first line of the chorus.

Alice’s voice joined in with his, and they finished
the chorus together. A thrill went through Quincy
as he sang the last line, and he was conscious that
his voice quivered when he came to the words, “Be
my own fair bride.”

“You sing with great expression,” said
Alice, “If you like these new words that I have
written to that old melody we can sing them together.
I have called it Loved Days. I think this is the
one,” she said, as she passed him several small
sheets pinned together.

Page 100

“It is,” said Quincy, as he took the paper
and read it slowly.

As before, he said nothing when he had finished.

“Mr. Judge,” said Alice, “would
it be improper, from a judicial point of view, for
me to ask you which lines in the song you have just
read please you the most? But perhaps,”
said she, looking up at him, “none of them are
worthy of repetition.”

“If you will consider for a moment,” replied
Quincy, “that I am off the bench and am just
sitting here quietly with you, I will say, confidentially,
that I am particularly well pleased with this;”
and he read a portion of the first stanza:

“And,” continued Quincy, “I think
these lines from the second stanza are fully equal
to those I have just read.”

But my soul, still living,
Speaks its words of
comfort sweet,
Grandest promise giving
That again we’ll
meet.

“I should think,” continued Quincy, “that
those words were particularly well suited to be sung
at a funeral. I shall have to ask my friend Bradley
to have his quartette learn them, so as to be ready
when I need them.”

“Oh! Mr. Sawyer,” cried Alice, with
a strong tone of reproof in her voice, “how
can you speak so lightly of death?”

“Pardon me,” replied Quincy, “if
I have unintentionally wounded your feelings, but
after all life is only precious to those who have
something to live for.”

“But you certainly,” said Alice, “can
see something in life worth living for.”

“Yes,” assented Quincy, “I can see
it, but I am not satisfied in my own mind that I shall
ever be able to possess it.”

“Oh, you must work and wait and hope!”
cried Alice.

“I shall be happy to,” he said, “if
you will be kind and say an encouraging word to me,
so that I may not grow weary of the battle of life.”

“I should be pleased to help you all I can,”
she said sweetly.

“I shall need your help,” Quincy remarked
gravely, and then with a quick change in tone he said
playfully, “I think it is about time for the
judge to get back upon the bench.”

“This,” said Alice, as she passed him
a manuscript enclosed in a cover, “is my capital
offence. If I escape punishment for my other
misdemeanors, I know I shall not when you have read
this.” And she handed him the paper.

Quincy opened it and read, The Lord of the Sea, a
Cantata.

Characters.

Canute, the Great, King of England and Denmark.
A Courtier.
An Irish Harper.
Queen Emma, the “Flower of Normandy.”
Courtiers, Monks, and Gleemen.

Place.

Part I.—­The palace of the king.
Part II.—­The seashore at Southampton.
Time—­About A.D. 1030.

As he proceeded with the reading he became greatly
interested in it. He had a fine voice and had
taken a prize for oratory at Harvard.

Page 101

When he finished he turned to Alice and said, “And
you wrote that?”

“Certainly,” said she. “Can
you forgive me?”

Quincy said seriously, “Miss Pettengill, that
is a fine poem; it is grand when read, but it would
be grander still if set to music. I can imagine,”
Quincy continued, “how those choruses would sound
if sung by the Handel and Haydn Society, backed up
by a full orchestra and the big organ.”
And he sang, to an extemporized melody of his own,
the words:

God bless the king of the
English,
The Lord of the land,
The Lord of the sea!

“I can imagine,” said he, as he rose and
stood before Alice, “King Canute as a heavy-voiced
basso. How he would bring out these words!

Great sea! the land on which
I stand, is mine;
Its rocky shores before thy
blows quail not.
Thou, too, O! sea, are part
of my domain,
And, like the land, must bow
to my command.
I’ll sit me here! rise
not, nor dare to touch,
With thy wet lips, the ermine
of my robe!

“And,” cried he, for the moment overcome
by his enthusiasm, “how would this sound sung
in unison by five hundred well-trained voices?

For God alone is mighty,
The Lord of the sea,
The Lord of the land!
For He holds the waves of
the ocean
In the hollow of His hand,
And the strength of the mightiest
king
Is no more than a grain of
sand.
For God alone is mighty,
The Lord of the sea,
The Lord of the land!”

As Quincy resumed his seat, Alice clapped her hands
to show her approbation of his oratorical effort.
Then they both sat in silence for a few minutes, each
evidently absorbed in thought.

Suddenly Alice spoke:

“And now, Mr. Sawyer, will you let me ask you
a serious question? If I continue writing pieces
like these, can I hope to earn enough from it to support
myself?”

Quincy thought for a moment, and then said, “I
am afraid not. If you would allow me to take
them to Boston the next time I go I will try and find
out their market value, but editors usually say that
poetry is a drug, and they have ten times as much
offered them as they can find room for. On the
other hand, stories, especially short ones, are eagerly
sought and good prices paid for them. Did you
ever think of writing a story, Miss Pettengill?”

“Oh, yes!” said Alice, “I have several
blocked out, I call it, in my own mind, but it is
such a task for me to write that I dare not undertake
them. If I could afford to pay an amanuensis it
would be different.”

Quincy comprehended the situation in a moment.
“I like to write, Miss Pettengill,” said
he, “and time hangs heavily upon my hands.
We are likely to have a long spell of winter weather,
during which I shall be confined to the house as well
as yourself. Take pity on me and give my idle
hands something to do.”

Page 102

“Oh, it would be too much to ask,” said
Alice.

“But you have not asked,” answered Quincy.
“I have offered you my services without your
asking.”

“But when could we begin?” asked Alice,
hesitatingly.

“At once,” replied Quincy. “I
brought with me from Boston a half ream of legal paper
and a dozen good pencils. I can write faster and
much better with a pencil than I can with a pen, and
as all legal papers have to be copied, I have got
into the habit of using pencils for everything.”

It took Quincy but a few minutes to go to his room
and secure his paper and pencils. He drew a table
close to Alice’s chair and sat down beside her.

“What is the name of the story?” asked
he.

Alice replied, “I have called it in my mind,
’How He Lost Both Name and Fortune.’”

CHAPTER XXIII.

A visittoMrs. Putnam.

It must not be supposed that Alice’s story was
written out by Quincy in one or even two days.
The oldest inhabitants will tell you that the great
snowstorm lasted three days and three nights, and it
was not till the fourth day thereafter that the roads
were broken out, so that safe travel between Eastborough
Centre and Mason’s Corner became possible.

The day after the storm the sad intelligence came
to Quincy and Alice that old Mr. Putnam had passed
quietly away on the last day of the storm. Quincy
attended the funeral, and he could not help acknowledging
to himself that Lindy Putnam never looked more beautiful
than in her dress of plain black. The only ornament
upon her was a pair of beautiful diamond earrings,
but she always wore them, and consequently they were
not obtrusive.

Quincy bore an urgent request from Mrs. Putnam that
Alice should come to see her. As the story was
finished and copied on the seventh day after the storm,
Quincy had the old-fashioned sleigh brought out and
lined with robes. Taking the horse Old Bill,
that sleigh bells or snow slides could not startle
from his equanimity, Alice was driven to Mrs. Putnam’s,
and in a few minutes was clasped to Mrs. Putnam’s
bosom, the old lady crying and laughing by turns.

Quincy thought it best, to leave them alone, and descending
the stairs he entered the parlor, the door being halfway
open. He started back as he saw a form dressed
in black, seated by the window.

“Come in, Mr. Sawyer,” said Lindy.
“I knew you were here. I saw you when you
drove up with Miss Pettengill. What a beautiful
girl she is, and what a pity that she is blind.
I hope with all my heart that she will recover her
sight.”

“She would be pleased to hear you say that,”
remarked Quincy.

“We were never intimate,” said Lindy.
“You can tell her from me, you are quite the
gallant chevalier, Mr. Sawyer, and what you say to
her will sound sweeter than if it came from other
lips. Are you going to marry her, Mr. Sawyer?”

Page 103

“I do not think that our acquaintance is of
such long standing that you are warranted in asking
me so personal a question,” replied Quincy.

“Perhaps not,” said Lindy, “but
as I happened to know, though not from your telling,
that she is to be my mother’s heiress, I had
a little curiosity to learn whether you had already
proposed or were going—­”

“Miss Putnam,” said Quincy sternly, “do
not complete your sentence. Do not make me think
worse of you than I already do. I beg your pardon
for intruding upon you. I certainly should not
have done so had I anticipated such an interview.”

Lindy burst into a flood of tears. Her grief
seemed uncontrollable. Quincy closed the parlor
door, thinking that if her cries and sobs were heard
upstairs it would require a double explanation, which
it might be hard for him to give.

He stood and looked at the weeping girl. She
had evidently known all along who her mother’s
heiress was. She had been fooling him, but for
what reason? Was she in love with him? No,
he did not think so; if she had been she would have
confided in him rather than have sought to force him
to confide in her. What could be the motive for
her action? Quincy was nonplussed. He had
had considerable experience with society girls, but
they either relied upon languid grace or light repartee.
They never used tears either for offence or defence.

A surprise was in store for Quincy. Lindy rose
from her chair and came towards him, her eyes red
with weeping.

“Why do you hate me so, Mr. Sawyer?” she
asked. “Why will you not be a friend to
me, when I need one so much? What first turned
you against me?”

Quincy replied, “I will tell you, Miss Putnam.
They told me you were ashamed of your father and mother
because they were old-fashioned country people and
did not dress as well or talk as good English as you
did.”

“Who told you so?” asked Lindy.

“It was common talk in the village,” he
replied.

“I should think you had suffered enough from
village gossip, Mr. Sawyer, not to believe that all
that is said is true.”

Quincy winced and colored. It was a keen thrust
and went home.

“Where there is so much smoke there must be
some fire,” he answered, rather lamely, as he
thought, even to himself.

“Mr. Sawyer, when I asked you to tell me a little
secret you had in your possession, you refused.
I wanted a friend, but I also wanted a proven friend.
No doubt I took the wrong way to win your friendship,
but I am going to tell you something, Mr. Sawyer,
if you will listen to me, that will at least secure
your pity for one who is rich in wealth but poor in
that she has no friends to whom she can confide her
troubles.”

Quincy saw that he was in for it, and like a gentleman,
determined to make the best of it, so he said, “Miss
Putnam, I will listen to your story, and if, after
hearing it, I can honorably aid you I will do so with
pleasure.”

Page 104

Lindy took his hand, which he had half extended, and
said, “Come, sit down, Mr. Sawyer. It is
a long story, and I am nervous and tired,” and
she looked down at her black dress.

They sat upon the sofa, he at one end, she at the
other.

“Mr. Sawyer,” she began abruptly, “I
am not a natural-born child of Mr. and Mrs. Putnam.
I was adopted by them when but two years of age.
I do not know who my father and mother were.
I am sure Mrs. Putnam knows, but she will not tell
me.”

“At first they both loved me,” Lindy continued,
“but a year after I came here to live their
son was born, and from that time on all was changed.
Mr. Putnam was never unkind to me but once, but Mrs.
Putnam seemed to take delight in blaming me, and tormenting
me, and nagging me, until it is a wonder that my disposition
is as good as it is, and you know it is not very good,”
said she to Quincy with a little smile. She resumed
her story: “I loved the little boy, Jones
I always called him, and as we grew up together he
learned to love me and took my part, although he was
three years younger than myself. This fact made
Mrs. Putnam hate me more than ever. He stayed
at home until he was twenty-two, then he went to his
father and mother and told them that he loved me and
wished to marry me. Both Mr. and Mrs. Putnam
flew into a great rage at this. The idea of a
brother marrying his sister! They said it was
a crime and a sacrilege, and the vengeance of God
would surely fall upon us both. Jones told them
he had written to a lawyer in Boston, and he had replied
that there was no law prohibiting such a marriage.
’But the law of God shines before you like a
flaming sword,’ said Mrs. Putnam; and Mr. Putnam
agreed with her, for she had all his property in her
possession.” Quincy smiled. “They
packed Jones off to the city at once,” said Lindy,
“and his mother gave him five thousand dollars
to go into business with. Jones began speculating,
and he was successful from first to last. In three
months he paid back the five thousand dollars his mother
had given him, and he never took a dollar from them
after that day. At twenty-six he was worth one
hundred thousand dollars. When I went to Boston
I always saw him, and he at last told me he could
stand it no longer. Be wanted me to marry him
and go to Europe with him. I told him I must have
a week to think it over. If I decided to go I
would be in Boston on a certain day. I would
bring my trunk and would stop at a certain hotel and
send word for him to come to me. I used all possible
secrecy in getting my clothes ready, and packed them
away, as I thought, unnoticed, in my trunk, which
was in the attic. Mrs. Putnam must have suspected
that I intended to leave home, and she knew that I

Page 105

would not go unless to meet her son. The day
before I planned going to Boston, or rather the night
before, she entered my room while I was asleep, took
every particle of my clothing, with the exception
of one house dress and a pair of slippers, and locked
me in. They kept me there for a week, and I wished
that I had died there, for when they came to me it
was to tell me that Jones was dead, and I was the
cause of it. I who loved him so!” And the
girl’s eyes filled with tears.

“What was the cause of his death?” asked
Quincy.

“He was young, healthy, and careless,”
answered Lindy. “He took a bad cold and
it developed into lung fever. Even then he claimed
it was nothing and would not see a doctor. One
morning he did not come to the office, his clerk went
to his room, but when the doctor was called it was
too late. It was very sad that he should die so,
believing that I had refused to go with him, when
I would have given my life for him. He loved
me till death. He left me all his money, but in
his will he expressed the wish that I would never
accept a dollar from his parents. So now you
see why Mrs. Putnam does not make me her heiress.
You think I hate Miss Pettengill because she is going
to give it to her, but truly I do not, Mr. Sawyer.
What I said when you came in I really meant, and I
hope you will be happy, Mr. Sawyer, even as I hoped
to be years ago.”

Quincy had been greatly interested in Lindy’s
story, and that feeling of sympathy for the unhappy
and suffering that always shows itself in a true gentleman
rose strongly in his breast.

“Miss Putnam,” said he, “I have
wronged you both in thought and action, but I never
suspected what you have told me. Will you forgive
me and allow me to be your friend? I will try
to atone in the future for my misdoings in the past.”

He extended his hand, and Lindy laid hers in his.

“I care not for the past,” said she.
“I will forget that. I have also to ask
for forgiveness. I, too, have said and done many
things which I would not have said or done, but for
womanly spite and vanity. You see my excuse is
not so good as yours,” said she, as she smiled
through her tears.

“In what way can I serve you?” asked Quincy.
“Why do you not go to Boston and live?
I could introduce you to many pleasant families.”

“What!” cried Lindy. “Me, a
waif and a stray! You are too kind-hearted, Mr.
Sawyer. I shall not leave the woman every one
but you thinks to be my mother. When she is dead
I shall leave Eastborough never to return. My
sole object in life from that day will be to find some
trace of my parents or relatives. Now it may
happen that through Mrs. Putnam or Miss Pettengill
you may get some clew that will help me in my search.
It is for this that I wish a friend, and I have a
presentiment that some day you will be able to help
me.”

Quincy assured her that if it lay in his power any
time to be of assistance to her, she could count upon
him.

Page 106

“By the way, Miss Putnam,” said he, “how
did your investment with Foss & Follansbee turn out?
I heard a rumor that the stock fell, and you lost
considerable money.”

Lindy flushed painfully. “It did drop,
Mr. Sawyer, but it rallied again, as you call it,
and when they sold out for me I made nearly five thousand
dollars; but,” and she looked pleadingly up into
Quincy’s face, “you have forgiven me for
that as well as for my other wrong doings.”

“For everything up to date,” said Quincy,
laughing.

At that instant a loud pounding was heard on the floor
above.

“Mrs. Putnam is knocking for you,” said
Lindy. “Miss Pettengill must be ready to
go home. Good-by, Mr. Sawyer, and do not forget
your unhappy friend.”

“I promise to remember her and her quest,”
said Quincy.

He gave the little hand extended to him, a slight
pressure and ran up the stairs. As he did so
he heard the parlor door close behind him.

As they were driving home, Alice several times took
what appeared to be a letter from her muff and held
it up as though trying to read it. Quincy glanced
towards her.

“Mr. Sawyer, can you keep a secret?” asked
Alice.

“I have a big one on my mind now,” replied
Quincy, “that I would like to confide to some
one.”

“Why don’t you?” asked Alice.

“As soon as I can find a person whom I think
can fully sympathize with me I shall do so, but for
the present I must bear my burden in silence,”
said he.

“I hope you Will not have to wait long before
finding that sympathetic friend,” remarked Alice.

“I hope so, too,” he replied. “But
I have not answered your question, Miss Pettengill.
If I can serve you by storing a secret with you, it
shall be safe with me.”

“Will you promise not to speak of it, not even
to me?” she asked.

“If you wish it I will promise,” he answered.

“Then please read to me what is written on that
envelope.”

Quincy looked at the envelope. “It is written
in an old-fashioned, cramped hand,” he said,
“and the writing is ’confided to Miss Alice
Pettengill, and to be destroyed without being read
by her within twenty-four hours after my death.
Hepsibeth Putnam.’”

[Illustration: “QuincyreadingAlice’slettertoher.”
(Act III.)]

“Thank you,” said Alice simply, and she
replaced the envelope in her muff.

Like a flash of lightning the thought came to Quincy
that the letter to be destroyed had some connection
with the strange story so recently told him by Lindy.
He must take some action in the matter before it was
too late. Turning to Alice he said, “Miss
Pettengill, if I make a strange request of you, which
you can easily grant, will you do it, and not ask
me for any explanation until after you have complied?”

“You have worded your inquiry so carefully,
Mr. Sawyer, that I am a little afraid you, you being
a lawyer, but as you have so graciously consented
to keep a secret with me, I will trust you and will
promise to comply with your request.”

Page 107

“All I ask is,” said Quincy, “that
before you destroy that letter, you will let me read
to you once more what is written upon the envelope.”

“Why, certainly,” said Alice, “how
could I refuse so harmless a request as that?”

“I am greatly obliged for your kindness,”
said Quincy to her; but he thought to himself, “I
will find out what is in that envelope, if there is
any honorable way of doing so.”

Hiram came over to see Mandy that evening, and Mrs.
Crowley, who was in the best of spirits, sang several
old-time Irish songs to them, Hiram and Mandy joining
in the choruses. They were roasting big red apples
on the top of the stove and chestnuts in the oven.
Quincy, attracted by the singing, came downstairs
to the kitchen, and was invited to join in the simple
feast. He then asked Mrs. Crowley to sing for
him, which she did, and he repaid her by singing,
“The Harp That Once Thro’ Tara’s
Halls” so sweetly that tears coursed down the
old woman’s cheeks, and she said, “My
poor boy Tom, that was killed in the charge at Balaklava,
used to sing just like that.”

Then the poor woman began weeping so violently that
Mandy coaxed her off to bed and left the room with
her.

When Hiram and Quincy were alone together, the latter
said: “Any news, Hiram?”

“Not much,” replied Hiram. “The
snow is too deep, and it’s too darned cold for
the boys to travel ‘round and do much gossipin’
this weather. A notice is pasted up on Hill’s
grocery that it’ll be sold by auction next Tuesday
at three o’clock in the afternoon. And I
got on to one bit of news. Strout and his friends
are goin’ to give Huldy Mason a surprise party.
They have invited me and Mandy simply because they
want you to hear all about it. But they don’t
propose to invite you, nor ’Zeke, nor his sister.”

“Has Strout got anybody to back him up on buying
the grocery store?” asked Quincy.

“Yes,” said Hiram, “he has got two
thousand dollars pledged, and I hear he wants five
hundred dollars more. He don’t think the
whole thing will run over twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“How much is to be paid in cash?” Quincy
inquired.

“Five hundred dollars,” said Hiram; “and
that’s what troubles Strout. His friends
will endorse his notes and take a mortgage on the store,
for they know it’s a good payin’ business.
They expect to get their money back with good interest,
but it comes kinder hard on them to plunk down five
hundred dollars in cold cash.”

At that moment Mandy returned, and after asking her
for a spoon and a plate upon which to take a roast
apple and some chestnuts upstairs, Quincy left the
young couple together. As he sat before the fire
enjoying his lunch, he resolved that he would buy that
grocery store, cost what it might, and that ’Zeke
Pettengill, Alice, and himself would go to that surprise
party.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Page 108

Thenewdoctor.

Quincy improved the first opportunity offered for
safe travelling to make a visit to the city.
He had several matters to attend to. First, he
had not sent his letter to his friend, requesting him
to make inquiries as to Obadiah Strout’s war
record, for the great snowstorm had come the day after
he had written it. Second, he was going to take
Alice’s story to show to a literary friend,
and see if he could secure its publication. And
this was not all; Alice had told him, after he had
finished copying the story she had dictated to him,
that she had written several other short stories during
the past two years.

In response to his urgent request, she allowed him
to read her treasured manuscripts. The first
was a passionate love story in which a young Spanish
officer, stationed on the island of Cuba, and a beautiful
young Cuban girl were the principals. It was
entitled “Her Native Land,” and was replete
with startling situations and effective tableaus.
Quincy was delighted with it, and told Alice if dramatized
it would make a fine acting play. This was, of
course, very pleasing to the young author. Quincy
was her amanuensis, her audience, and her critic, and
she knew that in his eyes she was already a success.

She also gave him to read a series of eight stories,
in a line usually esteemed quite foreign to feminine
instincts. Alice had conceived the idea of a
young man, physically weak and suffering from nervous
debility, being left an immense fortune at the age
of twenty-one. His money was well invested, and
in company with a faithful attendant he travelled
for fifteen years, covering every nook and corner of
the habitable globe. At thirty-six he returned
home much improved in health, but still having a marked
aversion to engaging in any business pursuit.
A mysterious case and its solution having been related
to him, he resolved to devote his income, now amounting
to a million dollars yearly, to amateur detective
work. His great-desire was to ferret out and
solve mysteries, murders, suicides, robberies, and
disappearances that baffled the police and eluded
their vigilant inquiry.

The titles that Alice had chosen for her stories were
as mysterious, in their way, as the stories themselves.
Arranged in the order of their writing, they were:
Was it Signed? The Man Without a Tongue; He Thought
He Was Dead; The Eight of Spades; The Exit of Mrs.
Delmonnay; How I Caught the Fire-Bugs; The Hot Hand;
and The Mystery of Unreachable Island.

When Quincy reached the city, his first visit was
to his father’s office, but he found him absent.
He was told that he was conducting a case in the Equity
Session of the Supreme Court, and would not return
to the office that day.

Instead of leaving his letter at his friend’s
office, he went directly to the Adjutant-General’s
office at the State House. Here he found that
an acquaintance of his was employed as a clerk.
He was of foreign birth, but had served gallantly
through the war and had left an arm upon the battlefield.
He made his request for a copy of the war record of
Obadiah Strout, of the —­th Mass. Volunteers.
Then a thought came suddenly to him and he requested
one also of the record of Hiram Maxwell of the same
regiment.

Page 109

Leaving the State House on the Hancock Avenue side,
he walked down that narrow but convenient thoroughfare,
and was standing at its entrance to the sidewalk on
Beacon Street, debating which publisher he would call
on first, when a cheery voice said, “Hello,
Sawyer.” When he looked up he saw an old
Latin School and college chum, named Leopold Ernst.
Ernst was a Jew, but he had been one of the smartest
and most popular of the boys in school and of the
men at Harvard.

“What are you up to?” asked Ernst.

“Living on my small fortune and my father’s
bounty,” said Quincy. “Not a very
creditable record, I know, but my health has not been
very good, and I have been resting for a couple of
months in the country.”

“Not much going on in the country at this time
of the year I fancy,” remarked Ernst.

“That’s where you are wrong,” said
Quincy. “There has been the devil to pay
ever since I landed in the town, and I’ve got
mixed up in so many complications that I don’t
expect to get back to town before next Christmas.
But what are you doing, Ernst?”

“Oh, I am in for literature; not the kind that
consists in going round with a notebook and prying
into people’s business, with a hope one day
of becoming an editor, and working twenty hours out
of the twenty-four each day. Not a bit of it,
I am reader for ——­;” and he
mentioned the name of a large publishing house.
“I have my own hours and a comfortable salary.
I sit like Solomon upon the efforts of callow authors
and the productions of ripened genius. Sometimes
I discover a diamond in the rough, and introduce a
new star to the literary firmament; and at other times
I cut up some egotistical old writer, who thinks anything
he turns out will be sure to please the public.”

“How fortunate that I have met you?” said
Quincy. “I have in this little carpet bag
the first effusions of one of those callow authors
of whom you spoke. She is poor, beautiful, and
blind.”

“Don’t try to trade on my sympathies,
old boy,” said Ernst. “No person
who is poor has any right to become an author.
It takes too long in these days to make a hit, and
the poor author is bound to die before the hit comes.
The ‘beautiful’ gag don’t work with
me at all. The best authors are homelier than
sin and it’s a pity that their pictures are
ever published. As regards the ‘blind’
part, that may be an advantage, for dictating relieves
one of the drudgery of writing one’s self, and
gives one a chance for a fuller play of one’s
fancies than if tied to a piece of wood, a scratchy
pen, and a bottle of thick ink.”

“Then you won’t look at them,” said
Quincy.

Page 110

“I didn’t say so,” replied Ernst.
“Of course, I can’t look at them in a
business way, unless they are duly submitted to my
house, but I have been reading a very badly written,
but mightily interesting manuscript, for the past
two days and a half, and I want a change of work or
diversion, to brush up my wits. Now, old fellow,”
said he, taking Quincy by the arm, “if you will
come up to the club with me, and have a good dinner
with some Chianti, and a glass or two of champagne,
and a pousse cafe to finish up with, then we will
go up to my rooms on Chestnut Street—­I
have a whole top floor to myself—­we will
light up our cigars, and you may read to me till to-morrow
morning and I won’t murmur. But, mind you,
if the stories are mighty poor I may go to sleep, and
if I do that, you might as well go to bed too, for
when I once go to sleep I never wake up till I get
good and ready.”

Quincy had intended after seeing a publisher to leave
the manuscripts for examination, then to take tea
with his mother and sisters, and go back to Eastborough
on the five minutes past six express. But he was
prone to yield to fate, which is simply circumstances,
and he accepted his old college chum’s invitation
with alacrity. He could get the opinion of an
expert speedily, and that fact carried the day with
him.

When they were comfortably ensconced in their easy-chairs
on the top floor, and the cigars lighted, Quincy commenced
reading. Leopold had previously shown him his
suite, which consisted of a parlor, or rather a sitting-room,
a library, which included principally the works of
standard authors and reference books, his sleeping
apartment, and a bathroom.

There was a large bed lounge in the sitting-room,
and Quincy determined to read every story in his carpet
bag, if it took him all night. He commenced with
the series of detective or mystery stories. He
had read them over before and was able to bring out
their strong points oratorically, for, as it has been
said before, he was a fine speaker.

Quincy eyed Ernst over the corner of the manuscript
he was reading, but the latter understood his business.
Occasionally he was betrayed into a nod of approval
and several times shook his head in a negative way,
but he uttered no word of commendation or disapproval.

After several of the stories had been read, Ernst
called a halt, and going to a cupboard brought out
some crackers, cake, and a decanter of wine, with
glasses, which he put upon a table, and placed within
comfortable reach of both reader and listener.
Then he said, “Go ahead,” munched a cracker,
sipped his wine, and then lighted a fresh cigar.

When the series was finished, Leopold said, “Now
we will have some tea. I do a good deal of my
reading at home, and I don’t like to go out again
after I have crawled up four flights of stairs, so
my landlady sends me up a light supper at just about
this hour. There is the maid now,” as a
light knock was heard on the door.

Page 111

Leopold opened it, and the domestic brought in a tray
with a pot of tea and the ingredients of a light repast,
which she placed upon another table near a window.

“There is always enough for two,” said
Leopold. “Reading is mighty tiresome work,
and listening is too, and a cup of good strong tea
will brighten us both up immensely. You can come
back for the tray in fifteen minutes, Jennie,”
said Ernest.

The supper was finished, the tray removed, and the
critic sat in judgment once more upon the words that
fell from the reader’s lips. Leopold’s
face lighted up during the reading of “Her Native
Land.” He started to speak, and the word
“That’s—­” escaped him,
but he recovered himself and said no more, though
he listened intently.

Quincy took a glass of wine and a cracker before starting
upon the story which had been dictated to him.
Leopold gave no sign of falling asleep, but patted
his hands lightly together at certain points in the
story, whether contemplatively or approvingly Quincy
could not determine. As he read the closing lines
of the last manuscript the cuckoo clock struck twelve,
midnight.

“You are a mighty good reader, Quincy,”
said Leopold, “and barring fifteen minutes for
refreshments, you have been at it ten hours. Now
you want my opinion of those stories, and what’s
more, you want my advice as to the best place to put
them to secure their approval and early publication.
Now I am going to smoke a cigar quietly and think the
whole thing over, and at half past twelve I will give
you my opinion in writing. I am going into my
library for half an hour to write down what I have
to say. You take a nap on the lounge there, and
you will be refreshed when I come back after having
made mince meat of your poor, beautiful, blind protege.”

Leopold disappeared into the library, and Quincy stretching
himself on the lounge, rested, but did not sleep.
Before he had realized that ten minutes had passed,
Leopold stood beside him with a letter sheet in his
hand, and said, “Now, Quincy, read this to me,
and I will see if I have got it down straight.”

Quincy’s hand trembled nervously as he seated
himself in his old position and turning the sheet
so that the light would fall upon it, he read the
following:

Opinion of Leopold Ernst, Literary Critic, of certain
manuscripts submitted for examination by Quincy A.
Sawyer, with some advice gratis.

1. Series of eight stories. Mighty clever
general idea; good stories well written. Same
style maintained throughout; good plots. Our house
could not handle them—­not of our line.
Send to ——. (Here followed the name
of a New York publisher.) I will write Cooper, one
of their readers. He is a friend of mine, and
will secure quick decision, which, I prophesy, will
be favorable.

2. “Her Native Land” is a fine story.
I can get it into a weekly literary paper that our
house publishes. I know Jameson, the reader,
will take it, especially if you would give him the
right to dramatize it. He is hand and glove with
all the theatre managers and has had several successes.

Page 112

3. That story about the Duke, I want for our
magazine. It is capital, and has enough meat
in it to make a full-blown novel. All it wants
is oysters, soup, fish, entrees, and a dessert prefixed
to and joined on to the solid roast and game which
the story as now written itself supplies.

In Witness Whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, this
24th day of February, 186—.

LeopoldErnst, Literary Critic.

Quincy remained all night with Leopold, sleeping on
the bed lounge in the sitting-room. He was up
at six o’clock the next morning, but found that
his friend was also an early riser, for on entering
the library he saw the latter seated at his desk regarding
the pile of manuscript which Quincy had read to him.

Leopold looked up with a peculiar expression on his
face.

“What’s the matter,” asked Quincy,
“changing your mind?”

“No,” said Leopold, “I never do
that, it would spoil my value as a reader if I did.
My decisions are as fixed as the laws of the Medes
and Persians, and are regarded by literary aspirants
as being quite as severe as the statutes of Draco;
but the fact is, Quincy, you and your protege—­you
see I consider you equally culpable—­have
neglected to put any real name or pseudonym to these
interesting stories. Of course I can affix the
name of the most popular author that the world has
ever known,—­Mr. Anonymous,—­but
you two probably have some pet name that you wish
immortalized.”

“By George!” cried Quincy, “we did
forget that. I will talk it over with her, and
send you the nom de plume by mail.

“Very well,” said Leopold, rising.
“And now let us go and have some breakfast.”

“My dear fellow, you must excuse me. I
have not seen my parents this trip, and I ought to
go up to the house and take breakfast with the family.”

“All right,” said Leopold, “rush
that pseudonym right along, so I can send the manuscripts
to Cooper. And don’t forget to drop in and
see me next time you come to the city.”

On his way to Beacon Street Quincy suddenly stopped
and regarded a sign that read, Paul Culver, M.D.,
physician and surgeon. He knew Culver, but hadn’t
seen him for eight years. They were in the Latin
School together under pater Gardner. He
rang the bell and was shown into Dr. Culver’s
office, and in a few minutes his old schoolmate entered.
Paul Culver was a tall, broad-chested, heavily-built
young man, with frank blue eyes, and hair of the color
that is sometimes irreverently called, or rather the
wearers of it are called, towheads.

They had a pleasant talk over old school days and
college experiences, which were not identical, for
Paul had graduated from Yale College at his father’s
desire, instead of from Harvard. Then Quincy broached
what was upper-most in his mind and which had been
the real reason for his call. He stated briefly
the facts concerning Alice’s case, and asked
Paul’s advice.

Page 113

Dr. Culver salt for a few moments apparently in deep
study.

“My advice,” said he, “is to see
Tillotson. He has an office in the Hotel Pelham,
up by the Public Library, you know.”

“Is he a ’regular’?” asked
Quincy.

“Well,” said Culver, “I don’t
think he is. For a fact I know he is not an M.D.,
but I fancy that the diploma that be holds from the
Almighty is worth more to suffering humanity than
a good many issued by the colleges.”

“You are a pretty broad-minded allopath,”
said Quincy, “to give such a sweeping recommendation
to a quack.”

“I didn’t say he was a quack,” replied
Culver. “He is a natural-born healer, and
he uses only nature’s remedies in his practice.
Go and see him, Quincy, and judge for yourself.”

“But,” said Quincy, “I had hoped
that you—­”

“But I couldn’t,” broke in Paul.
“I am an emergency doctor. If baby has
the croup, or Jimmy has the measles, or father has
the lung fever, they call me in, and I get them well
as soon as possible. But if mother-in-law has
some obscure complaint I am too busy to give the time
to study it up, and they wouldn’t pay me for
it if I did. Medicine, like a great many other
things, is going into the hands of the specialists
eventually, and Tillotson is one of the first of the
new school.”

At that moment a maid announced that some one wished
to see Dr. Culver, and Quincy took a hurried leave.

He found his father, mother, and sisters at home,
and breakfast was quickly served after his arrival.
They all said he was looking much better, and all
asked him when he was coming home. He gave an
evasive answer, saying that there were lots of good
times coming down in Eastborough and he didn’t
wish to miss them. He told his father he was
improving his time reading and writing, and would give
a good account of himself when he did return.

He had to wait an hour before he could secure an interview
with Dr. Tillotson. The latter had a spare day
in each week, that day being Thursday, which he devoted
to cases that he was obliged to visit personally.
Quincy arranged with him to visit Eastborough on the
following Thursday, and by calling a carriage managed
to catch the half-past eleven train for that town,
and reached his boarding place a little before two
o’clock. He had arranged with the driver
to wait for a letter that he wished to have mailed
to Boston that same afternoon.

He went in by the back door, and as he passed through
the kitchen, Mandy made a sign, and he went to her.

“Hiram waited till one o’clock,”
said she, “but he had to go home, and he wanted
me to tell you that the surprise party is coming off
next Monday night, and they are going to get there
at seven o’clock, so as to have plenty of time
for lots of fun, and Hiram suspects,” and her
voice fell to a whisper, “that Strout is going
to try and work the Deacon for that five hundred in
cash to put up for the grocery store next Tuesday.
That’s all,” said she.

Page 114

“Where is Miss Pettengill?” Quincy inquired.

“She’s in the parlor,” said Mandy.
“She has been playing the piano and singing
beautifully, but I guess she has got tired.”

Quincy went directly to the parlor and found Alice
seated before the open fire, her right hand covering
her eyes.

She, looked up as Quincy entered the room and said,
“I am so glad you’ve got back, Mr. Sawyer.
I have been very lonesome since you have been away.”

Alice did not see the happy smile that spread over
Quincy’s face, and he covered up his pleasure
by saying, “How did you know it was I?”

“Oh,” said Alice, “my hearing is
very acute. I know the step of every person in
the house. Swiss has been with me all the morning,
but he asked a few minutes ago to be excused, so he
could get his dinner.”

Quincy laughed, and then, said, “Miss Pettengill,
we forgot a very important matter in connection with
your stories; we omitted to put on the name of the
author.” He told her of his meeting with
Ernst, and what had taken place, and Alice was delighted.
Quincy did not refer to the coming visit of Dr. Tillotson,
for he did not mean to speak of it until the day appointed
arrived. “Now, Miss Pettengill, I have some
letters to write to send back by the hotel carriage,
so that they can be mailed this afternoon. While
I am doing this you can decide upon your pseudonym,
and I will put it in the letter that I am going to
write to Ernst.”

Quincy went up to his room and sat down at his writing
table. The first letter was to his bankers, and
enclosed a check for five hundred dollars, with a
request to send the amount in bills by Adams Express
to Eastborough Centre, to reach there not later than
noon of the next Tuesday, and to be held until called
for. The second letter was to a prominent confectioner
and caterer in Boston, ordering enough ice cream,
sherbet, frozen pudding, and assorted cake for a party
of fifty persons, and fifty grab-bag presents; all
to reach Eastborough Centre in good order on Monday
night on the five minutes past six express from Boston.
The third letter was to Ernst. It was short and
to the point. “The pseudonym is—.”
And he left a blank space for the name. Then he
signed his own. He glanced over his writing table
and saw the three poems that Alice had given him to
read. He added a postscript to his letter to
Ernst. It read as follows:

“I enclose three poems written by the same person
who wrote the stories. Tell me what you think
of them, and if you can place them anywhere do so,
and this shall be your warrant therefor.
Q.A.S.”

When his mail was in readiness he went downstairs
to the parlor, taking a pen and bottle of ink with
him, and saying to himself, “That pseudonym
shall not be written in pencil.”

“I am in a state of hopeless indecision,”
remarked Alice. “I can think of Christian
names that please me, and surnames that please me,
but when I put them together they don’t please
me at all.”

Page 115

“Then we will leave it to fate,” said
Quincy. He tore a sheet of paper into six pieces
and passed three, with a book and pencil, to Alice.
“Now you write,” said he, “three
Christian names that please you, and I will write
three surnames that please me; then we will put the
pieces in my hat, and you will select two and what
you select shall be the name.”

“That’s a capital idea,” said Alice,
“it is harder to select a name than it was to
write the story.”

The slips were written, placed in the hat, shaken
up, and Alice selected two, which she held up for
Quincy to read.

“This is not fair,” said Quincy.
“I never thought. Both of the slips are
mine. We must try again.”

“No,” said Alice, “it is ‘Kismet.’
What are the names?” she asked.

“Bruce Douglas, or Douglas Bruce, as you prefer,”
said Quincy.

“I like Bruce Douglas best,” replied Alice.

“I am so glad,” said Quincy, “that’s
the name I should have selected myself.”

“Then I will bear your name in future,”
said Alice, and Quincy thought to himself that he
wished she had said those words in response to a question
that was in his mind, but which he had decided it was
not yet time to ask her. He was too much of a
gentleman to refer in a joking manner to the words
which Alice had spoken and which had been uttered
with no thought or idea that they bore a double meaning.

Quincy wrote the selected name in the blank space
in Leopold’s letter, sealed it and took his
mail out to the carriage driver, who was seated in
the kitchen enjoying a piece of mince pie and a mug
of cider which Mandy had given him.

As Quincy entered the kitchen he heard Mandy say,
“How is ’Bias nowadays?”

“Oh, dad’s all right,” said the
young man; “he is going to run Wallace Stackpole
again for tax collector against Obadiah Strout.”

“Is your name Smith?” asked Quincy, advancing
with the letters in his hand.

“Yes,” replied the young man, “my
name is Abbott Smith. My dad’s name is
’Bias; he is pretty well known ’round these
parts.”

“I have heard of him,” said Quincy, “and
I wish to see him and Mr. Stackpole together.
Can you come over for me next Wednesday morning and
bring Mr. Stackpole with you? I can talk to him
going back, and I want you to drive us over to your
father’s place. Don’t say anything
about it except to Mr. Stackpole and your father,
but I am going to take a hand in town politics this
year.”

The young man laughed and said, “I will be over
here by eight o’clock next Wednesday.”

“I wish you would have these letters weighed
at the post office, and if any more stamps are needed
please put them on. Take what is left for your
trouble,” and Quincy passed Abbott a half dollar.

He heard the retreating carriage wheels as he went
upstairs to his room. He made an entry in his
pocket diary, and then ran his eye over several others
that preceded and followed it.

Page 116

“Let me see,” soliloquized he, as he read
aloud, “this is Friday; Saturday, expect war
records from Adjutant-General; Monday, hear from Ernst,
surprise party in the evening; Tuesday, get money at
express office; Tuesday afternoon, buy Hill’s
grocery and give Strout his first knock-out; Wednesday,
see Stackpole and Smith and arrange to knock Strout
out again; Thursday, Dr. Tillotson.” He
laughed and closed the book. Then he said, “And
the city fellows think it must be dull down here because
there is nothing going on in a country town in the
winter.”

CHAPTER XXV.

Someplainfactsandinferences.

The next day was Saturday; the sun did not show itself
from behind the clouds till noon, and Quincy put off
his trip to the Eastborough Centre post office with
the hope that the afternoon would be pleasant.
His wish was gratified, and at dinner he said he was
going to drive over to Eastborough Centre, and asked
Miss Pettengill if she would not like to accompany
him. Alice hesitated, but Uncle Ike advised her
to go, telling her that she stayed indoors too much
and needed outdoor exercise. Ezekiel agreed with
his uncle, and Alice finally gave what seemed to Quincy
to be a somewhat reluctant consent.

He saw that the sleigh was amply supplied with robes,
and Mandy, at his suggestion, heated a large piece
of soap-stone, which was wrapped up and placed in
the bottom of the sleigh.

Alice appeared at the door equipped for her journey.
Always lovely in Quincy’s eyes, she appeared
still more so in her suit of dark blue cloth.
Over her shoulders she wore a fur cape lined with quilted
red satin, and on her head a fur cap, which made a
strong contract with her light hair which crept out
in little curls from underneath.

They started off at a smart speed, for Old Bill was
not in the shafts this time. Alice had been familiar
with the road to Eastborough before leaving home,
and as Quincy described the various points they passed,
Alice entered into the spirit of the drive with all
the interest and enthusiasm of a child. The sharp
winter air brought a rosy bloom to her cheeks, and
as Quincy looked at those wonderful large blue eyes,
he could hardly make himself believe that they could
not see him. He was sure he had never seen a
handsomer girl.

As they passed Uncle Ike’s little house, Quincy
called her attention to it. Alice said:

“Poor Uncle Ike, I wish I could do more for
him, he has done so much for me. He paid for
my lessons in bookkeeping and music, and also for my
board until I had finished my studies and obtained
a position. He has been a father to me since
my own dear father died.”

Page 117

Quincy felt some inclination to find out the real
reason why Uncle Ike had left his family, but he repressed
it and called attention to some trees, heavily coated
with snow and ice, which looked beautiful in the sunshine,
and he described them so graphically, bringing in allusions
to pearls and diamonds and strings of glistening jewels,
that Alice clapped her hands in delight and said she
would take him as her literary partner, to write in
the descriptive passages. Quincy for an instant
felt impelled to take advantage of the situation, but
saying to himself, “The time is not yet,”
he touched the horse with his whip and for half a
minute was obliged to give it his undivided attention.

“Did you think the horse was running away?”
said he to Alice, when he had brought him down to
a trot. “Were you afraid?”

“I am afraid of nothing nowadays,” she
replied. “I trust my companions implicitly,
knowing that they will tell me if I am in danger and
advise me what to do. I had a debate a long time
ago with Uncle Ike about blind people and deaf people.
He said he would rather be stone deaf than blind.
As he argued it, the deaf person could read and write
and get along very comfortably by himself. I
argued on the other side. I wish to hear the
voices of my friends when they talk and sing and read,
and then, you know, everybody lends a helping hand
to a person who is blind, but the deaf person must
look out for himself.”

“Either state is to be regretted, if there is
no hope of relief,” remarked Quincy. He
thought he would refer to Dr. Tillotson, but they
were approaching the centre of the town, and he knew
he would not have time to explain his action before
he reached the post office, so he determined to postpone
it until they were on the way home.

There were three letters for himself, two for Alice
and a lot of papers and magazines for Uncle Ike.
He resumed his seat in the sleigh and they started
on their journey homeward.

“Would you like to go back the same way that
we came?” asked Quincy, “or shall we go
by the upper road and come by Deacon Mason’s?”

“I should like to stop and see Huldy,”
said Alice, and Quincy took the upper road.

Conversation lagged on the homeward trip. Alice
held her two letters in her hand and looked at them
several times, apparently trying to recognize the
handwriting. As Quincy glanced at her sidewise,
he felt sure that he saw tears in her eyes, and he
decided that it would be an inappropriate time to
announce the subject of the new doctor. In fact,
he was beginning to think, the more his mind dwelt
upon the subject, that he had taken an inexcusable
liberty in arranging for Dr. Tillotson to come down
without first speaking to her, or at least to her brother
or uncle. But the deed was done, and he must find
some way to have her see the doctor, and get his opinion
about her eyes.

Quincy spent so much time revolving this matter in
his mind, that he was quite astonished when he looked
around and found himself at the exact place where
he spoke those words to Huldy Mason that had ended
in the accident. This time he gave careful attention
to horse and hill and curve, and a moment later he
drew up the sleigh at Deacon Mason’s front gate.

Page 118

Mrs. Mason welcomed them at the door and they were
shown into the parlor, where Huldy sat at the piano.
The young girls greeted each other warmly, and Mrs.
Mason and Huldy both wished Quincy and Alice to stay
to tea. They declined, saying they had many letters
to read before supper and ’Zekiel would think
something had happened to them if they did not come
home.

“I will send Hiram down to let them know,”
said Mrs. Mason.

“You must really excuse us this time,”
protested Quincy. “Some other time perhaps
Miss Pettengill will accept your hospitality.”

“But when?” asked Mrs. Mason. “We
might as well fix a time right now.”

“Yes,” said Huldy, “and we won’t
let them go till they promise.”

“Well, my plan,” said Mrs. Mason, “is
this. Have ’Zekiel and Alice and Mr. Sawyer
come over next Monday afternoon about five o’clock,
and we will have tea at six, and we will have some
music in the evening. I have so missed your singing,
Mr. Sawyer, since you went away.”

“Yes,” said Huldy, “I think it is
real mean of you, Alice, not to let him come and see
us oftener.”

Alice flushed and stammered, “I—­I—­I
do not keep him from coming to see you. Why,
yes, I have too,” said she, as a thought flashed
through her mind. “I will tell you the
truth, Mrs. Mason. Mr. Sawyer offered to do some
writing for me, and I have kept him very busy.”

She stopped and Quincy continued:

“I did do a little writing for her, Mrs. Mason,
during the great snowstorm, and it was as great a
pleasure to me, as I hope it was a help to her, for
I had nothing else to do.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Mason, “you can
settle that matter between yer. All that Huldy
and me wants to know is, will all three of you come
and take tea with us next Monday night?”

“I shall be greatly pleased to do so,”
said Quincy.

“If ’Zekiel will come, I will,”
said Alice, and Quincy for an instant felt a slight
touch of wounded feeling because Alice had ignored
him entirely in accepting the invitation.

“What!” said Alice. “Didn’t
’Zekiel tell you about the surprise party that
Mr. Strout was getting up, and that you, ’Zekiel,
and I were not to be invited?”

“Oh! I see,” said Quincy. “How
stupid I have been! I knew all about it and that
it was to be next Monday, but Mrs. Mason asked us so
honestly to come to tea, and Huldy joined in so heartily,
that for the time being I got things mixed, and besides,
to speak frankly, Miss Pettengill, I was thinking
of something else.”

“And what was it?” asked Alice.

“Well,” said Quincy, determined to break
the ice, “I will tell you. I was wondering
why you said you would come to tea if ’Zekiel
would come.”

Page 119

“Oh!” said Alice, laughing. “You
thought I was very ungenerous to leave you out of
the question entirely.”

“Honestly I did think so,” remarked Quincy.

“Well, now,” said Alice, “I did
it from the most generous of motives. I thought
you knew about the surprise party as well as I did.
I knew ’Zekiel would go with me and I thought
that perhaps you had some other young lady in view
for your companion.”

“What?” asked Quincy. “Whom
could I have had in view?”

“Shall I tell you whom I think?” asked
Alice.

“I wish you would,” Quincy replied.

“Well,” said Alice, “I thought it
might be Lindy Putnam.”

Quincy bit his lip and gave the reins a savage jerk,
as he turned up the short road that led to the Pettengill
house. “What could make you think that,
Miss Pettengill?”

“Well, I have only one reason to give,”
Alice replied, “for that opinion, but the fact
is, when we made our call on Mrs. Putnam she pounded
on the floor three times with her crutch before you
came upstairs. Am I justified, Mr. Sawyer?”

“I’m afraid you are,” said Quincy.
“I should have thought so myself if I had been
in your place.”

But when he reached his room he threw his letters
on the table, his coat and hat on the bed, and thrusting
his hands into his pockets, he walked rapidly up and
down the room, saying to himself in a savage whisper,
“Confound that Putnam girl; she is a hoodoo.”

Quincy was philosophical, and his excited feelings
soon quieted down. It would come out all right
in the end. Alice would find that he had not
intended to take Miss Putnam to the surprise party.
He could not betray Lindy’s confidence just
at that time, even to justify himself. He must
wait until Mrs. Putnam died. It might be years
from now before the time came to destroy that letter,
and he could not, until then, disclose to Alice the
secret that Lindy had confided to him. Yes, it
would come out all right in the end, for it might
be if Alice thought he was in love with Lindy that
she would give more thought to him. He had read
somewhere that oftentimes the best way to awaken a
dormant love was to appear to fall in love with some
one else.

Somewhat reconciled to the situation by his thoughts,
he sat down to read his letters. The first one
that he took up was from the confectioner. It
informed him that his order would receive prompt attention,
and the writer thanked him for past favors and solicited
a continuance of the same. The second was from
Ernst. It was short and to the point, and written
in his characteristic style. It said:

“Dear Quincy:—­Pseudonym received.
Bruce Douglas is a name to conjure with. It smacks
of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ The Scotch are
the only people on the face of the earth who were
never conquered. You will remember, if you haven’t
forgotten your ancient history, that the Roman general
sent back word to his emperor that the d——­d
country wasn’t worth conquering. Enclosures
also at hand. The shorter ones are more songs
than poems. I will turn them over to a music
publisher, who is a friend of mine. Will report
his decision later.

Page 120

“I gave the long poem to Francis Lippitt, the
well-known composer, and he is delighted with it and
wishes to set it to music. He is great on grand
choruses, Bach fugues, and such like. If he sets
it to music he will have it sung by the Handel and
Haydn Society, for he is a great gun among them just
now. The eight stories have reached New York by
this time, and Jameson is reading ‘Her Native
Land.’

“With best regards to Mr. Bruce Douglas and
yourself.

LeopoldErnst.

The third letter was from the Adjutant-General’s
office, and Quincy smiled as he finished the first
sheet, folded it up and replaced it in the envelope.
As he read the second the smile left his face.
“Who would have thought it?” he said to
himself. “Well, after all, heroes are made
out of strange material. He is the man for my
money and I’ll back him up, and beat that braggart.”

On the following Sunday, after dinner, Quincy had
a chat with Uncle Ike. He took the opportunity
of asking the old gentleman if he was fully satisfied
with the progress towards recovery that his niece was
making.

“I don’t see that she is making any progress,”
said Uncle Ike frankly. “I don’t
think she can see a bit better than she could when
she came home. In fact, I don’t think she
can see as well. She had a pair of glasses made
of black rubber, with a pinhole in the centre of them,
that she could read a little with, but I notice now
that she never puts them on.”

“Well,” remarked Quincy, “perhaps
I have taken an unwarrantable liberty, Uncle Ike;
but when I was last in Boston I heard of a new doctor
who has made some wonderful cures, and I have engaged
him to come down here next week and see your niece.
Of course, if you object I will write to him not to
come, and no harm will be done.”

Quincy did not think it necessary to state that he
had paid the doctor his fee of one hundred dollars
in advance.

“Well,” said Uncle Ike, “I certainly
sha’n’t object, if the doctor can do her
any good. But I should like to know something
about the course of treatment, the nature of it, I
mean, before she gives up her present doctor.”

“That’s just what I mean,” said
Quincy. “I want you to be so kind as to
take this whole matter off my hands, just as though
I had made the arrangement at your suggestion.
I am going down for the doctor next Thursday noon.
Won’t you ride down with me and meet Dr. Tillotson?
You can talk to him on the way home, and then you
can manage the whole matter yourself, and do as you
think best about changing doctors.”

“You have been very kind to my niece, Mr. Sawyer,
since you have been here,” said Uncle Ike, “and
very helpful to her. I attribute your interest
in her case to your kindness of heart and a generosity
which is seldom found in the sons of millionaires.
But take my advice, Mr. Sawyer, and let your feelings
stop there.”

“I do not quite understand you,” replied
Quincy, though from a sudden sinking of his heart
he felt that he did.

Page 121

“Then I will speak plainer,” said Uncle
Ike. “Don’t fall in love with my
niece, Mr. Sawyer. She is a good girl, a sweet
girl, and some might call her a beautiful one, but
she has her limitations. She is not fitted to
sit in a Beacon Street parlor; and your parents and
sisters would not be pleased to have you place her
there. Excuse an old man, Mr. Sawyer, but you
know wisdom cometh with age, although its full value
is not usually appreciated by the young.”

Quincy, for the first time in his life, was entirely
at a loss for a reply. He burned to declare his
love then and there; but how could he do so in the
face of such a plain statement of facts? He did
the best thing possible under the circumstances; he
quietly ignored Uncle Ike’s advice, and thanking
him for his kindness in consenting to meet the new
doctor he bade him good afternoon and went to his
room.

After Quincy had gone Uncle Ike rubbed his hands together
gleefully and shook with laughter.

“The sly rogue!” he said to himself.
“Wanted Uncle Ike to help him out.”
Then he laughed again. “If he don’t
love her he will take my advice, but if he does, what
I told him will drive him on like spurs in the side
of a horse. He is a good fellow, a great deal
better than his father and the rest of his family,
for he isn’t stuck up. I like him, but my
Alice is good enough for him even if he were a good
deal better than he is. How it would tickle me
to hear my niece calling the Hon. Nathaniel Sawyer
papa!” And Uncle Ike laughed until his sides
shook.

Monday promised to be a dull day. ’Zekiel
told Quincy at breakfast, after the others had left
the table, that Alice had spoken to him about Mrs.
Mason’s invitation to tea, and, of course, he
was going. Quincy said that he had accepted the
invitation and would be pleased to accompany him and
his sister.

After breakfast he heard Alice singing in the parlor,
and joining her there told her that he had received
a letter from Mr. Ernst, which he would like to read
to her. Alice was delighted with the letter, and
they both laughed heartily over it, Quincy humorously
apologizing for the swear word by saying that being
historical it could not be profane.

Alice had in her hand the two letters that she had
received on Saturday.

“Have you answered your letters?” he asked.

“No, I have not even heard them read,”
she replied. “Uncle Ike has grown tired
all at once and won’t read to me nor write for
me. I don’t understand him at all.
I sent for him yesterday afternoon, after you came
down, and told him what I wanted him to do. He
sent back word that he was too busy and I must get
somebody else, but who can I get? Mandy and ’Zekiel
are both too much occupied with their own duties to
help me.”

“If I can be of any service to you, Miss Pettengill,
you know—­”

“Oh, I don’t think I should dare to let
you read these letters,” interrupted Alice,
laughing. “No doubt they are from two of
my lady friends, and I have always heard that men
consider letters that women write to each other very
silly and childish.”

Page 122

“Perhaps I have not told you,” said Quincy,
“that I have two sisters and am used to that
sort of thing. When I was in college hardly a
day passed that I did not get a letter from one or
the other of them, and they brightened up my life
immensely.”

“What are their names and how old are they?”
asked Alice.

“The elder,” replied Quincy, “is
nineteen and her name is Florence Estelle.”

“What a sweet name!” said Alice.

“The younger is between fifteen and sixteen,
and is named Maude Gertrude.”

“Is she as dignified as her name?” asked
Alice.

“Far from it,” remarked Quincy. “She
would be a tomboy if she had an opportunity.
Mother and father call them Florence and Maude, for
they both abhor nicknames, but among ourselves they
are known as Flossie, or Stell, and Gertie.”

“What was your nickname?” asked Alice.

“Well,” said Quincy, “they used
to call me Quinn, but that had a Hibernian sound to
it, and Maude nicknamed me Ad, which she said was
short for adder. She told me she called me that
because I was so deaf that I never heard her when
she asked me to take her anywhere.”

“Well, Mr. Sawyer, if you will promise not to
laugh out loud, I will be pleased to have you read
these letters to me. You can smile all you wish
to, for of course I can’t see you.”

“I agree,” said Quincy; and he advanced
towards her, took the two letters and drew a chair
up beside her.

“Before we go any further,” said Alice,
“I must explain my various names and nicknames.
I was named Mary Alice, the Mary being my mother’s
name, while the Alice was a favorite of my father’s.
Mother always called me Mary and father always called
me Alice! and brother ’Zekiel and Uncle Ike
seem to like the name Alice best. When I went
to Commercial College to study they asked me my name
and I said naturally Mary A. Pettengill. Then
the girls began to call me May, and the boys, or young
men I suppose you call them, nicknamed me Miss Atlas,
on account of my initials. Now that I have given
you a chart of my names to go by, the reading will
no doubt be plain sailing in future.”

Quincy laughed and said, “I should call it a
M.A.P. instead of a chart.”

“Fie! Mr. Sawyer, to make such a joke upon
my poor name. No doubt you have thought of one
that would please you better than any I have mentioned.”

Quincy thought he had, but he wisely refrained from
saying so. He could not help thinking, however,
that Miss Atlas was a very appropriate name for a
girl who was all the world to him. It is evident
that Uncle Ike’s words of advice the previous
afternoon had not taken very deep root in Quincy’s
heart.

He resumed his reading:

Page 123

“My dear May:—­How are you getting
along in that dismal country town, and how are your
poor eyes? I know you can’t write to me,
but I want you to know that I have not forgotten you.
Every time I see my sister, Stella, she waves your
photograph before my eyes. You know you promised
me one before you were sick. Just send it to me,
and it will be just as nice as a good, long letter.
As somebody else will probably read this to you, in
order to keep them from committing a robbery I send
you only one kiss.

From your loving,EmmaFarnum.”

“Are you smiling, Mr. Sawyer?” asked Alice.

“Not at all,” he answered. “I
am looking grieved because Miss Farnum has such a
poor opinion of me.”

Alice laughed merrily. “Emma is a very
bright, pretty girl,” said Alice. “She
boarded at the same house that I did. Her sister
Stella is married to a Mr. Dwight. I will answer
her letter as she suggests by sending her the promised
photograph. On the bureau in my room, Mr. Sawyer,
you will find an envelope containing six photographs.
I had them taken about a month before I was sick.
Underneath you will find some heavy envelopes that
the photographer gave me to mail them in.”

Quincy went upstairs three steps at a time. He
found the package, and impelled by an inexplicable
curiosity he counted the pictures and found there
were seven. “She said six,” he thought
to himself. “I am positive she said there
were only six.” He took one of the pictures
and put it in one of the mailing envelopes. He
took another picture, and after giving it a long,
loving look he placed it in the inside pocket of his
coat, and with a guilty flush upon his face he fled
from the room.

Just as he reached the open parlor door a second thought,
which is said to be the best, came to him, and he
was about turning to go upstairs and replace the picture
when Alice’s acute ear heard him and she asked,
“Did you find them?”

Quincy, seeing that retreat was now impossible, said,
“Yes,” and resumed his seat beside her.

“Did you find six?” said Alice.

“There are five upstairs in the envelope and
one here ready to address,” replied Quincy.

Quincy went to the table, wrote the address as directed,
and tied the envelope with the string attached.

“I am afraid the other letter cannot be so easily
answered,” said Alice. “Look at the
signature, please, and see if it is not from Bessie
White.”

“It is signed Bessie,” said Quincy.

“I thought so,” exclaimed Alice.
“She works for the same firm that I did.”

Quincy read the following:

“My Dear May:—­I know that you will
be glad to learn what is going on at the great dry
goods house of Borden, Waitt, & Fisher. Business
is good, and we girls are all tired out when night
comes and have to go to a party or the theatre to
get rested. Mr. Ringgold, the head bookkeeper,
is disconsolate over your absence, and asks done or
more of us every morning if we have heard from Miss
Pettengill. Then, every afternoon, he says, ’Did
I ask you this morning how Miss Pettengill was getting
along?’ Of course it is this devotion to the
interest of the firm that leads him to ask these questions.”

Page 124

Alice flushed slightly, and turning to Quincy said,
“Are you smiling, Mr. Sawyer? There is
nothing in it, I assure you; Bessie is a great joker
and torments the other girls unmercifully.”

“I am glad there is nothing in it,” said
Quincy. “If I were a woman I would be afraid
to marry a bookkeeper. My household cash would
have to balance to a cent, and at the end of the year
he would insist on housekeeping showing a profit.”

Alice regained her composure and Quincy continued
his reading:

“What do you think! Rita Sanguily has left,
and they say she is going to marry a Dr. Culver, who
lives up on Beacon Hill somewhere.”

Quincy started a little as he read this, but made
no comment.

“I was out to see Stella Dwight the other day,
and she showed me a picture of you. Can you spare
one to your old friend,

Bessiewhite.

“P.S.—­I don’t expect an answer,
but I shall expect the picture. I shall write
you whenever I get any news, and send you a dozen kisses
and two big hugs.
B.W.”

“She is more liberal than Miss Farnum,”
remarked Quincy. “She is not afraid that
I will commit robbery.”

“No,” rejoined Alice, “but I cannot
share with you. Bessie White is the dearest friend
I have in the world.”

“Miss White is fortunate,” said Quincy,
“but who is Rita Sanguily, if I am not presuming
in asking the question?”

“She is a Portuguese girl,” answered Alice,
“with black eyes and beautiful black hair.
She is very handsome and can talk Portuguese, French,
and Spanish. She held a certain line of custom
on this account. Do you know her?”

“No,” replied Quincy, “but I think
I know Dr. Culver.”

“What kind of a looking man is he?” asked
Alice.

“Oh! he is tall and heavily built, with large
bright blue eyes and tawny hair,” said Quincy.

“I like such marked contrasts in husband and
wife,” remarked Alice.

“So do I,” said Quincy, looking at himself
in a looking glass which hung opposite, and then at
Alice; “but how about Miss White’s picture?”

“Can I trouble you to get one?” said Alice.

“No trouble at all,” replied Quincy; but
he went up the stairs this time one step at a time.
He was deliberating whether he should return that
picture that was in his coat pocket or keep it until
the original should be his own. He entered the
room, took another picture and another envelope and
came slowly downstairs. His crime at first had
been unpremeditated, but his persistence was deliberate
felony.

“Now there are four left,” said Alice,
as Quincy entered the room.

“Just four,” he replied. “I
counted them to make sure.” He sat at the
table and wrote. “Will this do?” he
asked: “Miss Bessie White, care of Borden,
Waitt, & Fisher, Boston, Mass.?”

“Oh, thank you so much,” said Alice.

Page 125

At this moment Mandy appeared at the door and announced
dinner, and Quincy had the pleasure of leading Alice
to her accustomed seat at the table.

“I took the liberty while upstairs,” said
Quincy, “to glance at a book that was on your
bureau entitled, ‘The Love of a Lifetime,’
Have you read it?”

“No,” replied Alice. “I commenced
it the night before I was taken sick.”

“I shall be pleased to read it aloud to you,”
said Quincy.

“I should enjoy listening to it very much,”
she replied.

So after dinner they returned to the parlor and Quincy
read aloud until the descending sun again sent its
rays through the parlor windows to fall upon Alice’s
face and hair, and Quincy thought to himself how happy
he should be if the fair girl who sat beside him ever
became the love of his lifetime.

Alice finally said she was tired and must have a rest.
Quincy called Mandy and she went to her room.
A few moments later Quincy was in his own room and
after locking his door sat down to inspect his plunder.

Alice did not rest, however; something was on her
mind. She found her way to the bureau and took
up the pictures.

“Only four,” she said to herself, after
counting them. “Let me see,” she
continued, “the photographer gave me thirteen,—­a
baker’s dozen he called it. Now to whom
have I given them? ’Zekiel, one; Uncle Ike,
two; Mrs. Putnam, three; Stella Dwight, four; Bessie
White, five; Emma Farnum, six; Mr. Ringgold, seven;
Mr. Fisher, eight. That would leave five and
I have only four. Now to whom did I give that
other picture?”

And the guilty thief sat on the other side of the
partition and exulted in his crime. There came
a loud rap at his door, and Quincy started up so suddenly
that he dropped the picture and it fell to the floor.
He caught it up quickly and placed it in his pocket.
As he unlocked the door and opened it he heard loud
rapping on the door of Miss Pettengill’s room.

Looking into the entry he saw ’Zekiel, who cried
out, “Say, you folks, have you forgotten that
you have been invited out to tea this evening, and
that we are going to give a surprise party to Mr. Strout
and his friends? I am all dressed and the sleigh
is ready.”

Without waiting for a reply he dashed downstairs.

While Quincy was donning his sober suit of black,
with a Prince Albert coat and white tie, Alice had
put on an equally sober costume of fawn colored silk,
with collar and cuffs of dainty lace, with little dashes
of pink ribbon, by way of contrast in color.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Thesurpriseparty.

After Alice had taken her place on the back seat in
the double sleigh, Quincy started to take his place
on the front seat, beside ’Zekiel, but the latter
motioned him to sit beside Alice, and Quincy did so
without needing any urging.

As ’Zekiel took up the reins, Quincy leaned
forward and touched him on the shoulder.

Page 126

“I’ve just thought,” said he, “that
I’ve made a big blunder and I can’t see
how I can repair it.”

“The fact is,” Quincy continued, “I
ordered some ice cream and cake sent down from the
city for the show to-night, but I forgot, I am ashamed
to say, to make arrangements to have it sent up to
Deacon Mason’s. It will be directed to
him, but the station agent won’t be likely to
send it up before to-morrow.”

“What time is it?” asked ’Zekiel.

Quincy looked at his watch and replied, “It
is just half-past four.”

“Why do we go so early?” inquired Alice,
“they will not have tea till six.”

“Oh,” said ’Zekiel, “I intended
to give you a sleigh ride first anyway. Now with
this pair of trotters I am going to take you over to
Eastborough Centre and have you back at Deacon Mason’s
barn door in just one hour and with appetites that
it will take two suppers to satisfy.”

With this ’Zekiel whipped up his horses and
they dashed off towards the town. A short distance
beyond Uncle Ike’s chicken coop they met Abner
Stiles driving home from the Centre. He nodded
to ’Zekiel, but Quincy did not notice him, being
engaged in conversation with Alice at the time.
They reached the station, and Quincy gave orders to
have the material sent up, so that it would arrive
at about half-past nine. ’Zekiel more than
kept his promise, for they reached Deacon Mason’s
barn at exactly twenty-nine minutes past five.
Hiram was on hand to put up the horses, and told Quincy
in a whisper that some of the boys thought it was
mighty mean not to invite the Pettengill folks and
their boarder.

The sharp air had whetted the appetites of the travellers
during their six-mile ride, and they did full justice
to the nicely-cooked food that the Deacon’s
wife placed before them. Supper was over at quarter
before seven, and in half an hour the dishes were
washed and put away and the quartette of young folks
adjourned to the parlor.

Quincy took his seat at the piano and began playing
a popular air.

“Oh, let us sing something,” cried Huldy.
“You know I have been taking lessons from Professor
Strout, and he says I have improved greatly. If
he says it you know it must be so; and, did you know
Alice, that ’Zekiel has a fine baritone voice?”

“We used to sing a good deal together,”
said Alice, “but I was no judge of voices then.”

“Well, ’Zeke don’t know a note of
music,” continued Huldy, “but he has a
quick ear and he seems to know naturally just how to
use his voice.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said ’Zekiel, “I
don’t know how to sing, I only hum a little.
Sing us something, Mr. Sawyer,” said he.

Quincy sang a song very popular at the time, entitled
“The Jockey Hat and Feather.” All
four joined in the chorus, and at the close the room
rang with laughter. Quincy then struck up another
popular air, “Pop Goes the Weasel,” and
this was sung by the four with great gusto. Then
he looked over the music on the top of the piano,
which was a Bourne & Leavitt square, and found a copy
of the cantata entitled, “The Haymakers,”
and for half an hour the solos and choruses rang through
the house and out upon the evening air.

Page 127

Mrs. Mason looked in the door and said, “I wouldn’t
sing any more now, it is nearly eight o’clock.”

And thus admonished they began talking of Tilly James’s
engagement to Sam Hill and the sale of the grocery
store, which was to come off the next day.

“I wonder who will buy it?” asked Huldy.

“Well, I hear Strout has got some backers,”
said ’Zekiel, “but I don’t see what
good it will be to him unless he is appointed postmaster.
They say he has written to Washington and applied
for the position.”

Quincy pricked up his ears at this. He had almost
forgotten this chance to put another spoke in Mr.
Strout’s wheel. He made a mental memorandum
to send telegrams to two Massachusetts congressmen
with whom he was well acquainted to hold up Strout’s
appointment at all hazards until they heard from him
again.

A little after seven o’clock the advance guard
of the surprise party arrived at Hill’s grocery,
which was the appointed rendezvous. Abner Stiles
drew Strout to one side and said, “I saw the
Pettengill folks and that city feller in ’Zeke’s
double sleigh going over to the Centre at about five
o’clock.”

“So much the better,” said Strout.

“Do you know where they’ve gone?”
inquired Stiles.

“No, but I guess I can find out,” Strout
replied.

He had spied Mandy Skinner among a crowd of girls
on the platform. He called her and she came to
him.

“Did Mr. Pettengill and his sister take tea
at home to-night?”

“No,” said Mandy. “I told them
I was going away to-night, and Mr. Pettengill said
they were going away too. And Cobb’s twins
told me at dinner time that they wouldn’t be
home to supper; and as I didn’t wish to eat
too much, considering what was coming later, I didn’t
get no supper at all. I left Crowley to look
out for Uncle Ike, who is always satisfied if he gets
toast and tea.”

“Don’t you know where they’ve gone?”
inquired Strout.

“Over to the hotel, I guess,” said Mandy.
“I heard Mr. Sawyer tell Miss Alice that they
had good oysters over there, and she said as how she
was dying to get some raw oysters.”

“Things couldn’t have worked better,”
remarked Strout, as he rejoined Abner, who was smoking
a cheap cigar. “The Pettengill crowd has
gone over to the hotel to supper. You ought not
to smoke, Abner, if you are going to kiss the girls
to-night,” said Strout.

“I guess I sha’n’t do much kissin’,”
replied Abner, “except what I give my fiddle
with the bow, and that fiddle of mine is used to smoke.”

Strout looked around and saw that the whole party
had assembled. There were about fifty in all,
very nearly equally divided as regarded numbers into
fellows and girls.

“Now I am going ahead,” said Strout, “to
interview the old lady, before we jump in on them.
The rest of you just follow Abner and wait at the
top of the hill, just round the corner, so that they
can’t see you from the house. I have arranged
with Hiram to blow his bugle when everything is ready,
and when you hear it you just rush down hill laughing
and screaming and yelling like wild Injuns. Come
in the back door, right into the big kitchen, and
when Miss Huldy comes into the room you just wait
till I deliver my speech.”

Page 128

Strout started off, and the party followed Abner to
the appointed waiting place.

Strout knocked lightly at the kitchen door, and it
was opened by Mrs. Mason.

“Is the Deacon at home?” inquired he,
endeavoring to disguise his voice.

“No,” said Mrs. Mason, “he has gone
to Eastborough Centre on some business, but told me
he would be back about half past nine.”

“Is Hiram here?” asked Strout.

“He’s out in the kitchen polishing up
his bugle,” said Mrs. Mason. “But
come in a minute, Mr. Strout, I have got something
to fell you.”

Strout stepped in and quietly closed the door.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Mason? I
hope Huldy isn’t sick.”

“No,” said she, “it’s unfortunate
it has happened as it has, but it couldn’t be
avoided. You see she invited some company to tea,
and I supposed that they would have gone home long
’fore this. You see, Huldy don’t
suspect nothing, and she has asked them to spend the
evening, and I don’t see how in the world I
am going to get rid of them.”

“Don’t do it,” said Strout.
“Extend to them an invitation in my name to
remain and enjoy the evening’s festivities with
us. No doubt Miss Huldy will be pleased to have
them stay.”

“Well, Mrs. Mason,” said Strout, “just
tell Hiram I am ready to have him blow that bugle,
and when you hear it you can just tell your daughter
and her friends what’s up.”

Hiram soon joined Strout outside the kitchen door.
The latter went out in the road and looked up the
hill to see if his party was all ready. Abner
waved his hand, and Strout rushed back to Hiram and
cried, “Give it to ’em now, Hiram, and
do your darnedest!”

Huldy and her friends were engaged in earnest conversation,
when a loud blast burst upon the air, followed by
a succession of piercing notes from Hiram’s
old cracked bugle.

Huldy jumped to her feet and exclaimed, “What
does Hiram want to blow that horrid old bugle at this
time of night for? I will tell ma to stop him.”

She started towards the parlor door, when the whole
party heard shouts of laughter, screams from female
voices, and yells from male ones that would have done
credit to a band of wild Comanches.

All stood still and listened. Again the laughter,
screams, and yells were heard. This time they
seemed right under the parlor window.

A look of surprise and almost terror passed over Alice’s
face, and turning to Quincy unthinkingly she said
in a low whisper, “What was that, Quincy?
What does it mean?”

Quincy’s heart jumped as his Christian name
fell from the girl’s lips. He put his left
hand over his heart (her picture was in the pocket
just beneath it) and said as naturally as he could,
although with a little tremor in his voice, “It’s
all right, Alice, that’s Mr. Strout’s idea
of a surprise party.”

Page 129

“A surprise party!” cried Huldy, “who
for? Me?”

At this moment Mrs. Mason opened the door and entered
the room.

“Huldy,” said she, “Professor Strout
wishes me to tell you that he and his friends have
come to give you a surprise party, and he wished me
to invite you,” turning to the others, “as
Huldy’s friends to remain and enjoy the festivities
of the evening.”

Then the poor old lady, who had been under a nervous
strain for the past ten days, and who had come nearer
telling untruths than she ever had before in her life,
began to laugh, and then to cry, and finally sank
into a chair, overcome for the moment.

Let us return to the great kitchen, which the members
of the surprise party now had in their possession.
A dozen of the men produced lanterns, which they lighted,
and which were soon hung upon the walls of the kitchen,
one of the number having brought a hammer and some
nails.

It was a pound party, and two young men fetched in
a basket containing the goodies which had been brought
for the supper. Strout had made arrangements
to have the hot coffee made at the grocery store, and
it was to be brought down at half-past nine.

He arranged his party so that all could get a good
view of the door through which Huldy must come.
He stepped forward within ten feet of the door and
stood expectantly. Why this delay? Strout
looked around at the party. There were Tilly
James and Sam Hill; Cobb’s twins, and each brought
a pretty girl; Robert Wood, Benjamin Bates, and Arthur
Scates were equally well supplied; Lindy Putnam, after
much solicitation, had consented to come with Emmanuel
Howe, the clergyman’s son, and he was in the
seventh heaven of delight; Mandy stood beside Hiram
and his bugle, and Samantha Green had Farmer Tompkins’s
son George for escort. It was a real old-fashioned,
democratic party. Clergymen’s sons, farmers’
sons, girls that worked out, chore boys, farm hands,
and an heiress to a hundred thousand dollars, met
on a plane of perfect equality without a thought of
caste, and to these were soon to be added more farmers’
sons and daughters and the only son of a millionaire.

“Just give them a call,” said Strout,
turning to Hiram, and the latter gave a blast on his
bugle, which sent fingers to the ears of his listeners.
The handle of the door turned and opened and Huldy
entered, her mother leaning upon her arm.

They were greeted by hand clapping and cries of “Good
evening” from the party, and all eyes were fixed
upon Strout, who stood as if petrified and gazed at
the three figures that came through the open door and
stood behind Huldy and her mother. Hamlet following
the fleeting apparition on the battlements of the
castle at Elsinore, Macbeth viewing Banquo at his
feast, or Richard the Third gazing on the ghostly panorama
of the murdered kings and princes, could not have
felt weaker at heart than did Professor Strout when
he saw the new-comers and realized that they were
there by his express invitation.

Page 130

The members of the surprise party thought Strout had
forgotten his speech, and cries of “Speech!”
“Speech!” “Give us the speech!”
fell upon his ear, but no words fell from his lips.
It was a cruel blow, but no crueler than the unfounded
stories that he had started and circulated about the
town for the past three months. Those who had
thought it was mean not to invite the Pettengills
and Mr. Sawyer enjoyed his discomfiture and were the
loudest in calling for a speech.

The situation became somewhat strained, and Huldy
looked up to Quincy with an expression that seemed
to say, How are we going to get out of this?

Quite a number of the party saw this look and immediately
began calling out, “Mr. Sawyer, give us a speech!”
“A speech from Mr. Sawyer!”

Huldy smiled and nodded to Quincy, and then there
were loud cries of “Speech! Speech!”
and clapping of hands.

Abner Stiles got up and gave his chair to Professor
Strout, who sank into it, saying as he did so, “I
guess it was the heat.”

Quincy stepped forward and bowing to Huldy and then
to Mrs. Mason, addressed the party in a low but clearly
distinct voice.

“Authorized by these ladies to speak for them,
I desire to return sincere thanks for this manifestation
of your regard for them. Your visit was entirely
unexpected by Miss Mason and a great surprise to her.
But it is a most pleasant surprise, and she desires
me to thank you again and again for your kind thoughts
and your good company this evening. She and her
mother join in giving you a most hearty welcome.
They wish you to make yourselves at home and will do
all in their power to make the evening a happy one
and one long to be remembered by the inhabitants of
Mason’s Corner. The inception of this happy
event, I learn, is due to Professor Strout, who for
some time, I understand, has been Miss Mason’s
music teacher, and the ladies, whose ideas I am expressing,
desire me to call upon him to take charge of the festivities
and bring them to a successful close, as he is no doubt
competent and willing to do.”

Quincy bowed low and retired behind the other members
of the party.

Quincy’s speech was greeted with cheers and
more clapping of hands. Even Strout’s friends
were pleased by the graceful compliment paid to the
Professor, and joined in the applause.

Strout had by this time fully recovered his equanimity.
A chair was placed upon the kitchen table and Abner
Stiles was boosted up and took his seat thereon.
While he was tuning up his fiddle the Professor opened
a package that one of the girls handed to him and passed
a pair of knitted woollen wristers to each lady in
the company. He gave three pairs to Huldy, who
in turn gave one pair to her mother and one to Alice.
There were several pairs over, as several girls who
had been expected to join the party had not come.

“Now, Mrs. Mason,” said the Professor,
“could you kindly supply me with a couple of
small baskets, or if not, with a couple of milk pans?”

Page 131

The Professor took one of the pans and Robert Wood
the other.

“The ladies wall please form in line,”
cried the Professor; which was done. “Now
will each lady,” said the Professor, “as
she marches between us, throw one wrister in one pan
and t’other wrister in the other pan? Give
us a good, lively march, Abner,” he added, and
the music began.

The procession passed between the upheld pans, one
wrister of each pair thrown right and the other left,
as it moved on.

The music stopped. “Now, will the ladies
please form in line again,” said the Professor,
“and as they pass through each one take a wrister
from the pan held by Mr. Wood.”

The music started up again and the procession moved
forward and the work of selection was completed.

Again the music stopped. “Now will the
gentlemen form in line, and as they march forward
each one take a wrister from the pan that I hold,”
said the Professor.

Once more the music started up. The line was
formed, the procession advanced, ’Zekiel and
Quincy bringing up the rear. As Quincy took the
last wrister from the pan that the Professor held,
the latter turned quickly away and beat a tattoo on
the bottom of the pan with his knuckles and cried
out, “Gentlemen will please find their partners.
The wristers become the property of the gentlemen.”

Then a wild rush took place. Screams of laughter
were heard on every side, and it was fully five minutes
before the excitement subsided, and in response to
another tattoo upon the milk pan by the Professor,
the couples, as arranged by the hand of Fate, formed
in line and marched around the great kitchen to the
music of a sprightly march written by the Professor
and called “The Wrister March,” and respectfully
dedicated to Miss Hulda Mason. This announcement
was made by Mr. Stiles from his elevated position
upon the kitchen table.

The hand of Fate had acted somewhat strangely.
The Professor and Mandy Skinner stood side by side,
as did ’Zekiel Pettengill and Mrs. Mason.
Lindy Putnam and Huldy by a queer twist of fortune
were mated with Cobb’s twins.

But Fate did one good act. By chance Quincy and
Alice stood side by side. She looked up at him
and said to her partner, “What is your name,
I cannot see your face?”

“My name is Quincy,” said Sawyer in a
low voice.

“I am so glad!” said Alice, leaning a
little more heavily on his arm.

“So am I,” responded Quincy ardently.

After the procession had made several circuits of
the great kitchen, Professor Strout gave a signal,
and it broke up, each gentleman being then at liberty
to seek the lady of his own choice.

“What games shall we play fust?” asked
Strout, taking the centre of the room, and looking
round upon the company with a countenance full of
smiles and good nature.

“Who is it?” “Who is it?”
came from a dozen voices.

“All right,” cried Strout; “that’s
a very easy game to play. Now all you ladies
git in a line and I’ll put this one chair right
front of yer. Now all the gentlemen must leave
the room except one. I suppose we can use the
parlor, Mrs. Mason?”

Page 132

Mrs. Mason nodded her head in the affirmative.

“I’ll ’tend door,” said Hiram;
and he took his position accordingly. After the
rest of the gentlemen had left the room, Hiram closed
the door, and turning to Huldy said, “Shall
I call them, or will you?”

“You call them,” said Huldy.

“Got the handkerchief ready?” asked Hiram.

Huldy swung a big red bandanna in the air. Opening
a door, Hiram called out in a loud voice, “Obadiah
Strout.”

As Strout walked towards the line of young girls they
called out together, “Mister, please take a
chair.”

Strout sat down in a chair. One of the girls
who had the bandanna handkerchief in her hand passed
it quickly over his eyes and tied it firmly behind
his head. Two of the girls then stepped forward
and each one taking one of his hands and extending
it at right angles with his body held it firmly in
their grasps. At the same instant his head was
pulled back by one of the girls and a kiss was imprinted
on his upturned mouth.

“Who is it?” screamed the girls in unison.
The holds on the Professor’s head and hands
were released and he sat upright in the chair.

“I kinder guess it was Miss Huldy Mason,”
said he.

A loud laugh burst from the girls, mixed with cries
of “You’re wrong!” “You ain’t
right!” “You didn’t get it!”
“You’re out!” and similar ejaculations.

The handkerchief was taken from his eyes and he was
marched to the left of the line of girls, which ran
length-wise of the kitchen.

Abner Stiles was the next one called in, and he was
subjected to the same treatment as had befallen his
predecessor, but to the intense disgust of Professor
Strout he saw Hiram Maxwell come on tiptoe from the
parlor door, lean over and kiss Abner Stiles.
The thought of course ran through his mind that he
had been subjected to the same treatment. He
was on the point of protesting at this way of conducting
the game when the idea occurred to him that it would
be a huge satisfaction to have that city chap subjected
to the same treatment, and he decided to hold his
peace.

The next one called was ’Zekiel Pettengill,
and he was treated in the same manner as the Professor
and Abner had been; but as Hiram leaned over to kiss
him, ’Zekiel’s foot slipped upon the floor
and struck against Hiram’s, Hiram being in front
of him. ’Zekiel then put up both of his
feet and kicked with them in such a way that Hiram
was unable to approach him.

’Zekiel called out, “It’s Hiram
Maxwell,” and the room rang with the laughs
and cries of the girls.

’Zekiel, having guessed who it was, was marched
off to the right of the line of girls.

Strout called out, “Let’s play something
else,” but the sentiment of the company seemed
to be that it wasn’t fair to the others not to
give them a chance, so the game continued. Quincy
was the next one called, and to still further increase
the disgust of Strout and Abner, instead of Hiram
leaving the door, as before, one of the girls stepped
out from the line, at a signal from Huldy, and kissed
Quincy. He guessed that it was Miss Huldy Mason,
and was greeted with the same cries that Strout had
heard. He took his place at the left with the
latter.

Page 133

Strout leaned over and whispered in Abner’s
ear, “That was a put-up job. I’ll
get even with Hiram Maxwell before I get through.”

The game continued until all the men had been called
in. With the exception of Emmanuel Howe, none
of them were able to guess who it was. When Emmanuel
took his place by the side of ’Zekiel he confided
the fact to him that he guessed it was Miss Putnam
on account of the perfumery which he had noticed before
he left the house with her.

After this game others followed in quick succession.
There were “Pillow,” “Roll the Cover,”
“Button, Button, Who’s Got the Button?”
“Copenhagen,” and finally “Post Office.”
From all of these games Alice begged to be excused.
She told the Professor that she was not bashful nor
diffident, but that her eyesight was so poor that she
knew she would detract from the pleasure of the others
if she engaged in the games. The Professor demurred
at first, but said finally that her excuse was a good
one. Then he turned to Abner and remarked that
he supposed Mr. Sawyer would ask to be excused next
’cause his girl wasn’t going to play.

But Quincy had no such intention. After leading
Alice to a seat beside Mrs. Mason, he returned to
the company and took part in every game, entering
with spirit and vivacity into each of them. He
invented some forfeits that one girl objected to the
forfeit exacted of her as being all out of proportion
to her offence, the matter was referred to Quincy.
He said that he would remit the original forfeit and
she could kiss him instead. But she objected,
saying that forfeit was worse than the other one.
This pleased Strout greatly, and he remarked to Abner,
who kept as close to him as the tail to a kite, that
there was one girl in town who wasn’t afraid
to speak her mind.

The game of Post Office was the most trying one to
Quincy. Of his own free will he would not have
called either Huldy or Lindy, but Strout and Abner
and all the rest of them had letters for both of these
young ladies. He was afraid that his failure
to call them out might lead to remark, as he knew
that Strout and Abner and Robert Wood were watching
his actions closely. So, near the middle of the
game, when he had been called out, he had a letter
from England for Miss Lindy Putnam.

As she raised her face to his for the kiss on the
cheek that he gave her, she said, “I was afraid
you had not forgiven me, after all.”

“Oh, yes, I have,” said Quincy, and carried
away by the excitement of the occasion, he caught
her again in his arms and gave her another kiss, this
time upon the lips.

At this instant Abner Stiles, who was tending door,
opened it and called out, “Takes a long time
to pay the postage on one letter!”

A little later Quincy was again called out, and this
time he had a letter from Boston for Miss Mason.
He kissed her on the cheek, as he had done with Lindy.
Huldy looked up with a laugh and said, “Were
you as bashful as that with Miss Putnam?”

Page 134

“Yes,” said Quincy, “at first, but
there was double postage on her letter, the same as
on yours.” And though Huldy tried to break
away from him he caught her and kissed her upon the
lips, as he had done to Lindy.

Again Abner opened the door and cried out that the
mails would close in one minute, and he’d better
get the stamps on that letter quick.

All such good times come to an end, and the signal
for the close was the return of Deacon Mason from
his visit to town. He was popular with all parties,
and Stroutites, Anti-Stroutites, and neutrals all gathered
’round him and said they were having a beautiful
time, and could they have a little dance after supper?

The Deacon said he didn’t know that dancing
in itself was so bad, for the Bible referred to a
great many dances. “But,” said he,
“I have always been agin permiscuous dancing.”

“But we ain’t permiscuous,” said
Tilly James. “We are all friends and neighbors.”

“Most all,” said Strout; but his remark
was unnoticed by all excepting Quincy.

“Well, under the circumstances,” concluded
the Deacon, “I don’t object to your finishing
up with an old-fashioned reel, and mother and me will
jine in with you, so as to countenance the perceedings.”

The call was now made for supper. A procession
was again formed, each gentleman taking the lady who
had accompanied him to the party. They all filed
into the dining-room and took their places around the
long table. The most of them looked at its contents
with surprise and delight. Instead of seeing
only home-made cakes, and pies, and dishes of nuts,
and raisins, and apples, that they had expected, occupying
the centre of the table, they gazed upon a large frosted
cake, in the centre of which arose what resembled
the spire of a church, made of sugar and adorned with
small American flags and streamers made of various
colored silk ribbons. Flanking the centrepiece
at each corner were large dishes containing mounds
of jelly cake, pound cake, sponge cake, and angel
cake. On either side of the centrepiece, shaped
in fancy moulds, were two large dishes of ice cream,
a third full of sherbet, and the fourth one filled
with frozen pudding. In the vacant spaces about
the larger dishes were smaller plates containing the
home-made pies and cake, and the apples, oranges,
dates, figs, raisins, nuts, and candy taken from the
pound packages brought by the members of the surprise
party. Piled upon the table in heaps were the
fifty boxes containing the souvenir gifts that Quincy
had ordered.

As they took their places about the table, Quincy
felt it incumbent upon him to say something.
Turning to the Professor he addressed him:

“Professor Strout, I think it is my duty to
inform you that I have made this little addition to
the bountiful supper supplied by you and the members
of this party, on behalf of my friends, Mr. and Miss
Pettengill, and myself. I trust that you will
take as much pleasure in disposing of it as I have
in sending it. In the language of the poet I would
now say, ‘Fall to and may good digestion wait
on appetite!’”

Page 135

Quincy’s speech was received with applause.
The hot coffee had arrived and was soon circulating
in cups, mugs, and tumblers. Everybody was talking
to everybody else at the same time, and all petty fueds,
prejudices, and animosities were, apparently, forgotten.

The young fellows took the cue from Quincy, who, as
soon as he had finished his little speech, began filling
the plates with the good things provided, and passing
them to the ladies, and in a short time all had been
waited upon. When both hunger and appetite had
been satisfied, Quincy again addressed the company.

“In those small paper boxes,” said he,
“you will find some little souvenirs, which
you can keep to remind you of this very pleasant evening,
or you can eat them and remember how sweet they were.”
A general laugh followed this remark. “In
making your selection,” continued Quincy, “bear
in mind that the boxes tied up with red ribbon are
for the ladies, while those having blue ribbons are
for the gentlemen.”

A rush was made for the table, and almost instantly
each member of the company became possessed of a souvenir
and was busily engaged in untying the ribbons.

Again Quincy’s voice was heard above the tumult.

“In each package,” cried he, “will
be found printed on a slip of paper a poetical selection.
The poetry, like that found on valentines, is often
very poor, but the sentiment is there just the same.
In the city the plan that we follow is to pass our
own slip to our left-hand neighbor and he or she reads
it.”

This was too much for the Professor.

“I don’t think,” said he, “that
we ought to foller that style of doin’ things
jest because they do it that way in the city.
We are pretty independent in the country, like to
do thing’s our own way.”

“Oh! it don’t make any difference to me,”
said Quincy; “in the city when we get a good
thing we are willing to share it with our partners
or friends; you know I said if you didn’t wish
to keep your souvenir, you could eat it, and of course
the poetical selection is part of the souvenir.”

A peal of laughter greeted this sally, which rose
to a shout when Strout took his souvenir out of the
box. It proved to be a large sugar bee, very
lifelike in appearance and having a little wad of paper
rolled up and tucked under one of the wings.

As Strout spread out the slip of paper with his fingers,
loud cries of “Eat it!” “Read it!”
and “Pass it along!” came from the company.
The Professor stood apparently undecided what course
to pursue, when Tilly James, who was standing at his
left, grabbed it from his fingers, and running to
the end of the table, stood beside young Hill with
an expression that seemed to say, “This is my
young man, and I know he will protect me.”

“There is no heart but
hath some wish unfilled,
There is no soul without
some longing killed,
With heart and soul
work for thy heart’s desire.
And turn not back for
storm, nor flood, nor fire.”

“This is gittin’ quite tragic,”
said Strout. “I guess we’ve had all
we want to eat and drink, and have listened to all
the bad poetry we want ter, and I move—­”

“Second the motion,” cried Abner Stiles.

“And I move,” continued Strout, “that
we git back inter the kitchen, and have a little dance
jist to shake our suppers down.”

After the company returned to the kitchen, Abner was
again lifted to his elevated position on the kitchen
table, and the fun began again. There was no
doubt that in telling stories Abner Stiles often drew
the long bow, but it was equally true that he had
no superior in Eastborough and vicinity on the violin,
or the fiddle, as he preferred to call it. He
was now in his glory. His fiddle was tucked under
his chin, a red silk handkerchief with large yellow
polka dots protecting the violin from injury from
his stubbly beard rather than his chin from being injured
by the instrument.

After a few preliminary chords, Abner struck up the
peculiar dance movement very popular in those days,
called “The Cure.” As if prearranged,
Hiram Maxwell and Mandy Skinner ran to the centre of
the room and began singing the words belonging to
the dance. Abner gradually increased the speed
of the melody, and the singers conformed, thereto.
Faster and faster the music went, and higher and higher
the dancers jumped until the ceiling prevented any
further progress upward. They leaned forward
and backward, they leaned from side to side, but still
kept up their monotonous leaps into the air. Finally,
when almost exhausted, they sank into chairs hastily
brought for them, amid the applause of the party.

Quincy had seen the dance at the city theatres, but
acknowledged to himself that the country version was
far ahead of the city one. At the same time it
seemed to him that the dance savored of barbarism,
and he recalled pictures and stories of Indian dances
where the participants fell to the ground too weak
to rise.

“I put my right hand in,” called out one
of the fellows. Cries of “Oh, yes, that’s
it!” came from the company, and they arranged
themselves in two rows, facing each other and running
the length of the long room. They were in couples,
as they came to the party. Abner played the melody
on his violin, and the fellows and girls sang these
words:

“I put my right hand
in,
I put my right hand
out,
I give my right hand
a shake, shake, shake,
And I turn myself about.”

Page 138

As they sang the last line they did turn themselves
about so many times that it seemed a wonder to Quincy,
who was an amused spectator, how they kept upon their
feet.

Seeing that one of the young ladies in the line was
without a partner, Quincy took his place beside her
and joined in the merriment as heartily as the rest.
Then followed all the changes of “I put my left
hand in,” “I put my right foot in,”
“I put my left foot in,” and so on until
the whole party was nearly as much exhausted as Hiram
and Mandy had been.

At this moment the door leading to the parlor opened
and Deacon Mason entered, accompanied by his wife.
They were greeted with shouts of laughter. Quincy
looked at them with astonishment, and had it not been
for their familiar faces, which they had not tried
to disguise, he would not have recognized them.

Out of compliment to their guests, the Deacon and
his wife had gone back to the days of their youth.
Probably from some old chest in the garret each had
resurrected a costume of fifty years before. They
advanced into the room, smiling and bowing to the
delighted spectators on either side. They went
directly to Abner, and the latter bent over to hear
what the Deacon whispered in his ear. The Deacon
then went to Strout and whispered something to him.

Strout nodded, and turning to the company said, “As
it’s now half past ‘leven and most time
for honest folks to be abed and rogues a runnin’,
out of compliment to Miss Huldy’s grandpa and
grandma, who have honored us with their presence this
evenin’, we will close these festivities with
a good old-fashioned heel and toe Virginia reel.
Let ’er go, Abner, and keep her up till all
the fiddle strings are busted.”

Like trained soldiers, they sprang to their places.
Quincy and his partner took places near the end of
the line. He explained to her that he had never
danced a reel, but thought he could easily learn from
seeing the others, and he told her that when their
turn came she need not fear but that he would do his
part.

The Deacon and his wife led off, and their performance
caused great enthusiasm. Sam Hill was not a good
dancer, so he resigned Miss Tilly James to Professor
Strout. Miss James was a superb dancer, and as
Quincy looked at her his face showed his appreciation.

[Illustration: “TheDeaconandhiswifeledoff.”]

His partner saw the glance, and looking up to him
said, “Don’t you wish you could dance
as well as that?”

“I wish I could,” said Quincy. “I
have no doubt you can,” he added, looking at
his partner’s rosy face.

“Well,” said she, “you do the best
you can, and I’ll do the same.”

Professor Strout and Tilly did finely, and their performance
gained them an encore, which they granted. One
by one the couples went under the arch of extended
arms, and one by one they showed their Terpsichorean
agility on the kitchen floor, over which Mandy Skinner
had thoughtfully sprinkled a handful of house sand.

Page 139

At last came the turn of Quincy and his little partner,
whose name was unknown to him. He observed the
grace with which she went through the march, and when
the dance came be wished he could have stood still
and watched her. Instead, he entered with his
whole soul into the dance, and at its conclusion he
was astonished to hear the burst of applause and cheers
that fell upon his ears.

“Come along!” said his partner, and taking
him by the hand she drew him back through the arch,
and the dance was repeated.

Three times in succession was this done in response
to enthusiastic applause, and Quincy was beginning
to think that he would soon fall in his tracks.
He had no idea that any such fate would befall his
partner, for she seemed equal to an indefinite number
of repetitions.

But, as has been said before, to all good things an
end must come at last, and when the old-fashioned
Connecticut clock on the mantelpiece clanged out the
midnight hour, as if by magic a hush came over the
company and the jollities came to an end. Then
followed a rush for capes, and coats, and jackets,
and shawls, and hats. Then came good-byes and
good-nights, and then the girls all kissed Huldy and
her mother, wished them long life and happiness, while
their escorts stood quietly by thinking of the pleasant
homeward trips, and knowing in their hearts that they
should treasure more the pressure of the hand or the
single good-night kiss yet to come than they did the
surprise party kisses that had been theirs during
the evening.

Mrs. Mason and ’Zekiel had prepared Alice for
her homeward trip. Quincy took occasion to seek
out his partner in the reel to say good night, and
as he shook hands with her he said, “Would you
consider me rude if I asked your name and who taught
you to dance?”

“Oh! no,” she replied; “my name
is Bessie Chisholm. I teach the dancing school
at Eastborough Centre, and Mr. Stiles always plays
for me.”

“Is he going to see you home to-night?”
asked Quincy.

“Oh! no,” said she; “I came with
my brother. Here, Sylvester,” cried she,
and a smart-looking, country fellow, apparently about
twenty-one years of age, came towards them. “I’m
ready,” said Bessie to him, and then, turning
to Quincy, “Mr. Sawyer, make you acquainted with
my brother, Sylvester Chisholm.”

“Ah, you know my name,” said Quincy.

“I guess everybody in Eastborough knows who
you are,” retorted she with a toss of her head,
as she took her brother’s arm and walked away.

Hiram had brought ’round the Pettengill sleigh
from the barn. ’Zekiel, Alice, Quincy,
and Mandy were the last of the party to leave.
Quincy took his old place beside Alice, while Mandy
sat on the front seat with ’Zekiel.

It was a beautiful moonlight night and the ride home
was a most enjoyable one.

“I am sorry,” said Quincy to Alice, “that
you could not take part in more of the games.
I enjoyed them very much.”

Page 140

Halfway to Hill’s grocery they passed the Professor
and Abner walking home to Mrs. Hawkins’s boarding
house. They called out, “Good night and
pleasant dreams,” and drove rapidly on.
In the Square a number of the party had stopped to
say good night again before taking the various roads
that diverged from it, and another interchange of “Good
nights” followed.

When Strout and Abner reached the Square it was deserted.
There was no light shining in the boarding house.
The kerosene lamps and matches were on a table in
the front entry. Strout lighted his lamp and went
upstairs. Strout’s room was one flight up,
while Abner’s was up two. As they reached
Strout’s room he said, “Come in, Abner,
and warm up. Comin’ out of that hot room
into this cold air has given me a chill.”
He went to a closet and brought out a bottle, a small
pitcher, and a couple of spoons. “Have
some rum and molasses, nothin’ better for a cold.”

They mixed their drinks in a couple of tumblers, which
Strout found in the closet. Then he took a couple
of cigars from his pocket and gave one to Abner.
They drank and smoked for some time in silence.

At last Abner said, “How are you satisfied with
this evenin’s perceedin’s?”

“Wall, all things considered,” said Strout,
“I think it was the most successful party ever
given in this ’ere town, if I did do it.”

“That’s so,” responded Abner sententiously.
“Warn’t you a bit struck up when that
city feller come in?”

“Not a bit,” said Strout. “You
know when I come back, you see it was so cussed hot,
yer know I said it was the heat, but I knew they wuz
there. Mrs. Mason, told me.”

“Did she?” asked Abner, with wide-opened
eyes. “I thought it was one on you.”

“When I went down to the road before the bugle
was blown,” said Strout, “Mrs. Mason told
me they was there. You see, Huldy didn’t
suspect nothin’ about the party and so she asked
them over to tea. She sorter expected they would
go right after tea, but they got singin’ songs
and tellin’ stories, and Huldy saw they had
come to stay.”

“But,” said Abner, “that city feller
must have known all about it aforehand or how could
he git that cake and frozen stuff down from Bosting
so quick?”

“Didn’t you say,” said Strout, “that
you seen them going over to Eastborough Centre about
five o’clock?”

“Yes,” replied Abner, “but how did
he know when it was? Some one must have told
him, I guess.”

“Wall, I only wanted to know, so I could tell
the truth when folks asked me,” said Abner.

“That’s all right,” said Strout.
“Cuddent you guess who told him? ’Twas
that Hiram Maxwell. I’ve been pumping him
about the city chap, and of course, I’ve had
to tell him somethin’ for swaps. But to-morrow
when I meet him I’ll tell him I don’t
want anythin’ more to do with a tittle-tattle
tell-tale like him.”

Page 141

“What d’ye think of that pome ’bout
the bumblebee?” drawled Abner.

“Oh, that was a put-up job,” said Strout.

“How could that be?” asked Abner, “when
you took it out of your own box?”

“Well,” rejoined Strout, “he’ll
find I’m the wustest kind of a bumblebee if
he stirs me up much more. When my dander’s
up a hornet’s nest ain’t a patch to me.”

“I kinder fancied,” continued Abner, “that
the reason he had them fancy boxes sent down was because
he sorter thought our pound packages would be rather
ornary.”

“I guess you’ve hit it ’bout right,”
remarked Strout; “them city swells would cheat
their tailor so as to make a splurge and show how much
money they’ve got. I guess he thought as
how I’d never seen ice cream, but I showed him
I knew all about it. I eat three sasserful myself.”

“I beat you on that,” said Abner; “I
eat a sasserful of each kind.”

As Abner finished speaking he emptied his glass and
then reached forward for the bottle in order to replenish
it. Strout’s glass was also empty, and
being much nearer to the bottle than Abner was, he
had it in his possession before Abner could reach
it. When he put it down again it was beyond his
companion’s reach. Abner turned some molasses
into has tumbler, and then said, “Don’t
you think ’twas purty plucky of that city feller
to come to our party to-night?”

“No, I don’t,” said Strout, “he
jest sneaked in with ’Zeke Pettengill and his
sister. He’ll find out that I’m no
slouch here in Eastborough. When I marry the
Deacon’s daughter and git the Deacon’s
money, and am elected tax collector agin, and buy
the grocery store, and I’m app’inted postmaster
at Mason’s Corner, he’ll diskiver that
it’s harder fightin’ facts like them than
it is Bob Wood’s fists. I kinder reckon
there won’t be anybody that won’t take
off their hats to me, and there won’t be any
doubts as to who runs this ’ere town. That
city feller’s health will improve right off,
and he’ll go up to Boston a wiser man than when
he come down.”

“That’s so,” remarked Abner; and
as he spoke he stood up as if to emphasize his words.
Before he sat down, however, he reached across the
table for the bottle, but again Strout was too quick
for him.

“I was only goin’ to drink yer health
an’ success to yer,” said Abner.

“All right,” said Strout, “make
it half a glass and I’ll jine yer.”

The two men clinked their glasses, drank, and smacked
their lips.

“If you don’t go to bed now you won’t
git up till to-morrer,” said the Professor.

“Yer mean ter-day,” chuckled Abner, as
he got up and walked ’round to the other side
of the table, where he had left his lamp.

“I guess,” remarked Strout, “I’ll
have some more fire. I ain’t goin’
to bed jest yet. I’ve got some heavy thinkin’
to do.”

While he was upon his knees arranging the wood, starting
up the embers with the bellows, Abner reached across
the table and got possession of his tumbler, from
which he had fortunately removed the spoon. Grasping
the bottle he filled it to the brim and tossed it down
in three big swallows. As he replaced the tumbler
on the table, Strout turned round.

Page 142

“There was ’bout a spoonful left in the
bottom of my tumbler,” said Abner, apologetically.
“Them that drinks last drinks best,” said
he, as he took up his lamp. “I guess that
nightcap won’t hurt me,” he muttered to
himself as he stumbled up the flight of stairs that
led to his room.

The fire burned brightly and Strout resumed his seat
and drew the bottle towards him. He lifted it
up and looked at it.

“The skunk!” said he half aloud; “a
man that’ll steal rum will hook money next.
Wall, it won’t be many days before that city
chap will buy his return ticket to Boston. Then
I shan’t have any further use for Abner.
Let me see,” he soliloquized, “what I’ve
got to do to-morrer? Git the Deacon’s money
at ten, propose to Huldy ’bout half past, git
home to dinner at twelve, buy the grocery store ’bout
quarter-past three; that’ll be a pretty good
day’s work!”

Then the Professor mixed up a nightcap for himself
and was soon sleeping soundly, regardless of the broad
smile upon the face of the Man in the Moon, who looked
down upon the town with an expression that seemed to
indicate that he considered himself the biggest man
in it.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Townpolitics.

At the table next morning the conversation was all
about the surprise party. The Cobb twins declared
that without exception it was the best party that
had ever been given at Mason’s Corner, to their
knowledge.

After breakfast Quincy told Ezekiel that he was going
over to Eastborough Centre that morning; in fact,
he should like the single horse and team for the next
three days, as he had considerable business to attend
to.

He drove first to the office of the express company;
but to his great disappointment he was informed that
no package had arrived for him on the morning train.
Thinking that possibly some explanation of the failure
of the bank to comply with his wishes might have been
sent by mail, he went to the post office; there he
found a letter from the cashier of his bank, informing
him that he had taken the liberty to send him enclosed,
instead of the five hundred dollars in bills, his own
check certified for that amount, and stated that the
local bank would undoubtedly cash the same for him.

As he turned to leave the post office he met Sylvester
Chisholm. Quincy greeted the young man pleasantly,
and asked him if he were in business at the Centre.
Sylvester replied that he was the compositor and local
newsman on the “Eastborough Express,” a
weekly newspaper issued every Friday. The bank
being located in the same building, Quincy drove him
over. Sylvester asked Quincy if he would not step
in and look at their office. Quincy did so.
A man about thirty years of age arose from a chair
and stepped forward as they entered, saying, “Hello,
Chisholm, I have been waiting nearly half an hour
for you.”

“Mr. Appleby, Mr. Sawyer,” said Sylvester,
introducing the two men.

Page 143

“Mr. Appleby occupies a similar position on
the ‘Montrose Messenger’ to the one that
I hold on the ‘Eastborough Express,’”
said Sylvester, by way of explanation to Quincy.
“We exchange items; that is, he supplies me
with items relating to Montrose that are supposed to
be interesting to the inhabitants of Eastborough,
and I return the compliment. Here are your items,”
said Sylvester, passing an envelope to Mr. Appleby.

Mr. Appleby seemed to be in great haste, and with
a short “Good morning” left the office.

“He is a great friend of Professor Strout’s,”
remarked Sylvester.

“You speak as though you were not,” said
Quincy.

“Well,” replied Sylvester, “I used
to think a good deal more of him at one time than
I do now, not on account of anything that he has done
to me, but I do not think he has treated one of my
dearest friends just right. Did you hear anything,
Mr. Sawyer, about his being engaged or likely to be
engaged to Deacon Mason’s daughter, Huldy?”

Quincy looked at Sylvester and then laughed outright.

“No, I haven’t heard of any such thing,”
he replied, “and considering certain information
that I have in my mind and which I know to be correct,
I do not think I ever shall.”

“Will you tell me what that information is?”
asked Sylvester.

“Well, perhaps I will,” said Quincy, “if
you will inform me why you wish to know.”

“Well, the fact is,” remarked Sylvester,
“that for quite a while Professor Strout and
my sister Bessie, whom you saw last night at the party
and with whom you danced, kept company together, and
everybody over here to the Centre thought that they
would be engaged and get married one of these days;
but since that concert at the Town Hall, where you
sang, a change of mind seems to have come over the
Professor, and he has not seen my sister except when
they met by accident. She thinks a good deal
of him still, and although the man has done me no
harm personally, of course I do not feel very good
toward the fellow who makes my sister feel unhappy.”

“Now,” said Quincy, “what I am going
to say I am going to tell you for your personal benefit
and not for publication. I happen to know that
Miss Huldy Mason is engaged definitely to Mr. Ezekiel
Pettengill, and has been for some time. Now,
promise me not to put that in your paper.”

“I promise,” said Sylvester, “unless
I obtain the same information from some other source.”

“All right,” rejoined Quincy, and shaking
hands with the young man he crossed the passageway
and went into the bank.

He presented his certified check, and the five hundred
dollars in bills were passed to him, and he placed
them in his inside coat pocket. He was turning
to leave the bank when he met Deacon Mason just entering.

“Ah, Deacon,” said he, “have you
come to draw some money? I think I have just
taken all the bank bills they have on hand.”

Page 144

“I hope not,” said the Deacon, “I
kinder promised some one that I’d be on hand
about noon to-day with five hundred dollars that he
wants to use on a business matter this afternoon.”

Quincy took the Deacon by the arm and pulled him one
side, out of hearing of any other person in the room.

“Say, Deacon Mason, I am going to ask you a
question, which, of course, you can answer or not,
as you see fit; but if this business matter turns
out to be what I think it is, I may be able to save
you considerable trouble.”

“I don’t think you would ask me any question
that I ought not to answer,” replied the Deacon,
glancing up at Quincy with a sly look in his eye and
a slight smile on his face.

“Well,” continued Quincy, “are you
going to let Strout have that money to pay down on
account of the grocery store?”

“Why, yes,” said the Deacon, “I
guess you have hit it about right. Strout seemed
to think that there warn’t any doubt but what
he could get the store, but as he said the town clerk
was willing to endorse his note, I came over here
last night just on purpose to find that out. I
kinder thought I was perfectly safe in letting him
have the money.”

“Oh, you would be all right, Deacon, financially,
if the town clerk or any other good man endorsed his
note; but you see Strout won’t need the money.
I happen to know of another man that is going to bid
on that grocery store. How much money do you
think Strout can command; how high will he bid?”

“Well, he told me,” the Deacon answered,
“that he had parties that would back him up
to the extent of two thousand dollars, and this five
hundred dollars that I was goin’ to lend him
would make twenty-five hundred, and he had sort o’
figured that the whole place, including the land and
buildings and stock, warn’t wuth any more than
that, and that Benoni Hill would be mighty glad to
get such a good offer.”

“That’s all right,” said Quincy,
“but I happen to know a man that’s going
to bid on that grocery store and he will have it if
he has to bid as high as five thousand dollars, and
he is ready to put down the solid cash for it without
any notes.”

The Deacon glanced up at Quincy, and the sly look
in his eye was more pronounced than ever, while the
smile on his face very much resembled a grin.

“I guess it must be some outside feller that
is a-going to buy it then,” said the Deacon,
“for I don’t believe there is a man in
Eastborough that would put up five thousand dollars
in cold cash for that grocery store, unless he considered
that he was paying for something besides groceries
when he bought it.”

“Well, I don’t think, Deacon,” continued
Quincy, “that we need go further into particulars;
I think we understand each other; all is, you come
up to the auction this afternoon, and if the place
is knocked down to Strout I will let you have the
five hundred dollars that I have here in my pocket;
besides, it would have been poor business policy for
you to let him have the money on that note before
the sale; for if the store was not sold to him you
could not get back your money until the note became
due.”

Page 145

“That’s so,” assented the Deacon.
“Well, I’ve got to get home, cuz I promised
to meet him by twelve o’clock.”

“So have I,” said Quincy, “for I
have got to see the man who is going to buy the grocery
store and fix up a few business matters with him.”

Both men left the bank and got into their respective
teams, which were standing in front of the building.

“Which road are you going, Deacon?” asked
Quincy.

“Waal, I guess, for appearance’s sake,
Mr. Sawyer, you better go on the straight road, while
I’ll take the curved one. Yer know the curved
one leads right up to my barn door.”

“Yes, I know,” said Quincy, “I found
that out last night;” and the two men parted.

Quincy made quick time on his homeward trip.
As he neared the Pettengill house he saw Cobb’s
twins and Hiram standing in front of the barn.
He drove up and threw the reins to Bill Cobb, saying,
“I shall want the team again right after dinner;”
and turning to Hiram, be said, “Come down to
Jacob’s Parlor, I want to have a little talk
with you.”

They entered the large wood shed that Ezekiel’s
father had called by the quaint name just referred
to, and took their old seats, Quincy in the armchair
and Hiram on the chopping block facing him. Hiram
looked towards the stove and Quincy said, “It
is not very cold this morning, I don’t think
we shall need a fire; besides, what I have got to say
will take but a short time. Now, young man,”
continued he, “how old did you say you were?”

“I am about thirty,” replied Hiram.

“You are about thirty?” repeated Quincy,
“and yet you are satisfied to stay with Deacon
Mason and do his odd jobs for about ten dollars a month
and your board, I suppose.”

“Well, he isn’t a mean man,” said
Hiram, “he gives me ten dollars a month and
my board, and two suits of clothes a year, including
shoes and hats.”

“Have you no ambition to do any better?”
asked Quincy.

“Ambition?” cried Hiram, “why I’m
full of it. I’ve thought of more than a
dozen different kinds of business that I would like
to go into and work day and night to make my fortune,
but what can a feller do if he hasn’t any capital
and hasn’t got any backer?”

“Well, the best thing that you can do, Hiram,
is to find a partner; that’s what people do
when they have no money; they look around and find
somebody who has.”

“You mean,” said Hiram, “that I’ve
got to look ’round and find some one who has
got some money, who’s willin’ to let me
have part of it. There’s lots of fellers
in Eastborough that have got money, but they hang to
it tighter’n the bark to a tree.”

“And yet,” said Quincy, “a man like
Obadiah Strout can go around this town and get parties
to back him up to the extent of twenty-five hundred
dollars.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Hiram, “but
he couldn’t do that if the parties didn’t
have a mortgage on the place, and o’ course if
Strout can’t keep up his payments they’ll
grab the store and get the hull business. I happen
to know that one of the parties that’s goin’
to put his name on one of Strout’s notes said
quietly to another party that told a feller that I
heerd it from that it wouldn’t be more’n
a year afore he’d be runnin’ that grocery
store himself.”

Page 146

“Well, Hiram Maxwell, I’ve got some money
that I am not using just now. You know that I’ve
got quite a large account to settle with that Professor
Strout, and I can afford to pay pretty handsomely to
get even with him. Now do you think if you had
that grocery store that you could make a success of
it?”

“Could I?” cried Hiram, “waal, I
know I could. I know every man, woman, and child
in this town, and there isn’t one of them that’s
got anythin’ agin me that I knows of.”

“I’d back you up,” said Quincy,
“but I’ve got something against you, and
I will not agree to put my money into that store until
you explain to me something that you told me several
weeks ago. I don’t say but that you told
me the truth as far as it went, but you didn’t
tell me the whole truth, and that’s what I find
fault with you for.”

Hiram’s eyes had dilated, and he looked at Quincy
with a wild glance of astonishment. Could he
believe his ears? Here was this young man, a
millionaire’s son, saying that he would have
backed him up in business but for the fact that he
had told him a wrong story. Hiram scratched his
head and looked perplexed.

“True as I live, Mr. Sawyer, I don’t remember
ever tellin’ you a lie since I’ve known
yer. I may have added a little somethin’
to some of my stories that I have brought inter yer,
jest to make them a little more interesting and p’r’aps
ter satisfy a little pussonal spite that I might have
agin some o’ the parties that I was tellin’
yer about, but I know as well’s I’m standin’
here that I never told yer nothin’ in the way
of a lie to work yer any injury. You’ve
alwus treated me white, and if there’s one thing
that Mandy Skinner says she can’t abear, it’s
a man that tells lies.”

“Then,” remarked Quincy with a smile,
“you think a good deal of Miss Mandy Skinner’s
opinion?”

“I ain’t never seen any girl whose opinion
I think more of,” answered Hiram.

“Did you ever see any girl that you thought
more of?” continued Quincy.

“Waal, I guess it’s an open secret ’round
town,” said Hiram, “that I’d marry
her quicker’n lightnin’, if she’d
have me.”

“Well, why won’t she have you?”
persisted Quincy.

“That’s easy to answer,” said Hiram.
“You stated the situation purty plainly yourself
when you counted up my income, ten dollars a month
and my food and two suits of clothes. How could
I pervide for Mandy out o’ that?”

“Well,” asked Quincy, “supposing
I bought that grocery store for you and you got along
well and made money. Do you think Mandy would
consent to become Mrs. Maxwell?”

“I can’t say for sure, Mr. Sawyer, but
I think Miss Mandy Skinner would be at a loss for
any good reason for refusin’ me, in case what
you jest talked about come to pass,” said Hiram.

“Now,” proceeded Quincy, “we will
settle that little matter that I referred to a short
time ago. You remember you were telling me your
war experiences. You said you were never shot,
but that you were hit with a fence rail at the battle
of Cedar Mountain.”

Page 147

“Waal, I guess if you git my war record you
will find I didn’t tell yer any lie about that.”

“Well, no,” said Quincy, “that’s
all right; but why didn’t you tell me that on
one occasion, when the captain of your company was
shot down, together with half the attacking force,
that you took his body on your back and bore him off
the field, at the same time sounding the retreat with
your bugle? Why didn’t you tell me that
on two separate occasions, when the color sergeants
of your company were shot and the flag fell from their
grasp, that you took the flag and bore it forward,
sounding the charge, until you were relieved of your
double duty? In other words, when there were
so many good things that you could say for yourself,
why didn’t you say them?”

Hiram thought for a moment and then he said, “Waal,
I didn’t think that I had any right to interduce
outside matters not connected with what we were talkin’
about. You asked me if I’d ever been shot,
and I told yer how I got hit; but I didn’t consider
the luggin’ the cap’n off the field or
h’istin’ Old Glory, when there wasn’t
anybody else to attend to it jest that minute, come
under the head of bein’ shot.”

Quincy laughed outright and extended his hand, which
Hiram took. Quincy gave it a hearty shake and
said, “Hiram, I think you’re all right.
I’ve decided to buy that grocery store for you
for two reasons. The first is that you have served
me well; Mandy has been very kind and attentive to
me, and I want to see you both prosper and be happy.
My second reason relates to the Professor, and, of
course, does not need any explanation, so far as you’re
concerned. Now, you go up to the house, put on
your best suit of clothes, tell the Deacon that I
want your company this afternoon; I will drive up
your way about two o’clock, and we will go to
the auction.”

While these events were taking place, others, perhaps
equally interesting, were transpiring in another part
of Mason’s Corner. The Professor had not
arisen until late, but ten o’clock found him
dressed in his best and surveying his personal appearance
with a pleased expression. He felt that this
was a day big with the fate of Professor Strout and
Mason’s Corner!

When he left Mrs. Hawkins’s boarding house he
went straight to Deacon Mason’s.

“Is the Deacon in?” he asked, as pleasant-faced
Mrs. Mason opened the door.

“No, he has gone over to the Centre. He
said he’d got to go to the bank to get some
money for somebody, but that he’d be back ’tween
’leven and twelve.”

“Yes, she’s in the parlor; she went in
to practise on her music lesson, but I guess she’s
reading a book instead, for I haven’t heard the
piano since she went in half an hour ago.”

“Waal, I’ll step in and have a little
chat with her whilst I’m waiting for the Deacon,”
said the Professor; “but you just let me know
as soon as the Deacon comes, won’t you, Mrs.
Mason?”

Page 148

Mrs. Mason replied that she would, and the Professor
opened the parlor door and stepped in.

“Oh, good morning, Miss Mason,” said the
Professor; “I hope I see you enjoying your usual
good health after last evening’s excitement.”

Huldy arose and shook hands with the Professor.

“Oh, yes,” said she, “I got up a
little late this morning, but I never felt better
in my life. It was very kind of you, Mr. Strout,
and of my other friends, to show your appreciation
in such a pleasant manner, and I shall never forget
your kindness.”

“Waal, you know, I’ve always taken a great
interest in you, Miss Mason.”

“I know you have in my singing,” answered
Huldy, “and I know that I have improved a great
deal since you have been giving me lessons.”

“But I don’t refer wholly to your singin’,”
said the Professor.

“Oh, you mean my playing,” remarked Huldy.
“Well, I don’t know that I shall ever
be a brilliant performer on the piano, but I must acknowledge
that you have been the cause of my improving in that
respect also.”

“Waal, I don’t mean,” continued
the Professor, “jest your singin’ and
your playin’. I’ve been interested
in you as a whole.”

“I don’t exactly see what you mean by
that, Mr. Strout, unless you mean my ability as a
housekeeper. I am afraid if you ask my mother,
she will not give me a very flattering recommendation.”

“Oh, you know enough about housekeepin’
to satisfy me,” said the Professor.

Huldy by this time divined what was on the Professor’s
mind; in fact, she had known it for some time, but
had assured herself that he would never have the courage
to put his hints, and suggestions, and allusions,
into an actual declaration. So she replied with
some asperity, “What made you think I was looking
for a situation as housekeeper?”

“Oh, nothin’,” said he, “I
wasn’t thinkin’ anythin’ about what
I thought you thought, but I was a-thinkin’
about somethin’ that I thought myself.”

Huldy looked up inquiringly.

“What would you say,” asked the Professor,
“if I told you that I thought of gettin’
married?”

“Well, then, my advice to you,” continued
Huldy, “is don’t delay; if you do perhaps
some other fellow may ask her first, and she may consent,
not knowing that you think so much of her.”

“Well, I’ve thought of that,” said
the Professor. “I guess you’re right.
What would you say,” continued he, “if
I told you that I had asked her?”

“Well, I should say,” answered Huldy,
“that you told me only a minute or two ago that
you hadn’t.”

“Well, I hadn’t then,” said the
Professor.

“I don’t really see how you have had any
chance to ask her, as you say you have,” remarked
Huldy, “in the short time that has passed since
you said you hadn’t. I am not very quick
at seeing a joke, Professor, but p’raps I can
understand what you mean, if you will tell me when
you asked her, and where you asked her to marry you.”

Page 149

“Just now! Right here!” cried the
Professor; and before Huldy could interpose he had
arisen from his chair and had fallen on his knees
before her.

Huldy looked at him with a startled expression, then
as the whole matter dawned upon her she burst into
a loud laugh. The Professor looked up with a
grieved expression on his face. Huldy became grave
instantly.

“I wasn’t laughing at you, Professor.
I’m sure I’m grateful for your esteem
and friendship, but it never entered my head till this
moment that you had any idea of asking me to be your
wife. What made you think such a thing possible?”

The Professor was quite portly, and it was with some
little difficulty that he regained his feet, and his
face was rather red with the exertion when he had
succeeded.

“Well, you see,” said he, “I never
thought much about it till that city feller came down
here to board; then the whole town knew that you and
‘Zeke Pettengill had had a fallin’ out,
and then by and by that city feller who was boardin’
with your folks went away, and I kinder thought that
as you didn’t have any steady feller—­”

Huldy broke in,—­“You thought I was
in the market again and that your chances were as
good as those of any one else?”

“Yes, that’s jest it,” said the
Professor. “You put it jest as I would
have said it, if you hadn’t said it fust.”

“Well, really, Professor, I can’t understand
what gave you and the whole town the idea that there
was any falling out between Mr. Pettengill and myself.
We have grown up together, we have always loved each
other very much, and we have been engaged to be married—­”

“Since when?” broke in the Professor,
excitedly.

“Since the day before I last engaged you to
give me music lessons,” replied Huldy.

What the Professor would have said in reply to this
will never be known; for at that moment Mrs. Mason
opened the door, and looking in, said, “The
Deacon’s come.”

Strout grasped his hat, and with a hurried bow and
“Good morning” to Huldy, left the room,
closing the door behind him. It must be said for
the Professor that he bore defeat with great equanimity,
and when he reached the great kitchen and shook hands
with Deacon Mason, who had just come in from the barn,
the casual observer would have noticed nothing peculiar
in his expression.

“Waal, Deacon,” said he in a low tone,
“did you git the money?”

“Oh, I’ve ’ranged ’bout the
money,” said the Deacon; “but I had a talk
with my lawyer, and he said it wasn’t good bizness
for me to pay over the five hundred dollars till the
store was actually knocked down to you. Here’s
that note of yourn that the town clerk endorsed las’
night. Neow, when the auctioneer says the store
is yourn I’ll give yer the five hundred dollars
and take the note. I’ll be up to the auction
by half-past two, so you needn’t worry, it’ll
be jest the same as though yer had the money in yer
hand.”

Page 150

Strout looked a little disturbed; but thinking the
matter over quickly, he decided that he had nothing
to gain by arguing the question with the Deacon; so
saying, “Be sure and be on hand, Deacon, for
it’s a sure thing my gettin’ that store,
if I have the cash to pay down,” he left the
house.

He went up the hill and turned the corner on the way
back to his boarding house. When he got out of
sight of the Deacon’s house he stopped, clenched
his hands, shut his teeth firmly together and stamped
his foot on the ground; then he ejaculated in a savage
whisper, “Women are wussern catamounts; you
know which way a catamount’s goin’ to jump.
I wonder whether she was honest about that, or whether
she’s been foolin’ me all this time; she’ll
be a sorry girl when I git that store and ’lected
tax collector, and git app’inted postmaster.
I’ve got three tricks left, ef I have lost two.
I wonder who it was put that idea into the Deacon’s
head not ter let me have thet money till the sale was
over. I bet a dollar it wuz thet city feller.
Abner says thet he met Appleby on his way back to
Montrose, and he told him thet he saw thet city feller
and the Deacon drive off tergether from front o’
the bank. Oh! nonsense, what would the son of
a millionaire want of a grocery store in a little
country town like this?” and he went into his
boarding house to dinner.

A few moments after two o’clock Strout could
restrain his impatience no longer, and leaving his
boarding house he walked over to the grocery store.
Quite a number of the Mason’s Corner people were
gathered in the Square, for to them an auction sale
was as good as a show. Quincy had not arrived,
and the Professor tried to quiet his nerves by walking
up and down the platform and smoking a cigar.
The crowd gradually increased, quite a number coming
in teams from Montrose and from Eastborough Centre.
One of the teams from Montrose brought the auctioneer,
Mr. Beers, with whom Strout was acquainted. He
gave the auctioneer a cigar, and they walked up and
down the platform smoking and talking about everything
else but the auction sale. It was a matter of
professional dignity with Mr. Barnabas Beers, auctioneer,
not to be on too friendly terms with bidders before
an auction. He had found that it had detracted
from his importance and had lowered bids, if he allowed
would be purchasers to converse with him concerning
the articles to be sold. It was their business,
he maintained in a heated argument one evening in
the hotel at Montrose, to find out by personal inspection
the condition and value of what was to be sold, and
it was his business, he said, to know as little about
it as possible, for the less he knew the less it would
interfere with his descriptive powers when, hammer
in hand, he took his position on the bench. Having
established a professional standing, Barnabas Beers
was not a man to step down, and though the Professor,
after a while, endeavored to extract some information
from the auctioneer as to whether there was likely
to be many bidders, he finally gave it up in despair,
for he found Mr. Beers as uncommunicative as a hitching
post, as he afterwards told Abner Stiles.

Page 151

About half-past two Deacon Mason drove into the Square,
and the Professor went to meet him, and shook hands
with him. In a short time his other backers,
who had agreed to endorse his notes to the amount of
two thousand dollars, arrived upon the scene, and he
took occasion to welcome them in a manner that could
not escape the attention of the crowd. It was
now ten minutes of three, and the auctioneer stepped
upon the temporary platform that had been erected
for him, and bringing his hammer down upon the head
of a barrel that had been placed in front of him,
he read, in a loud voice, which reached every portion
of the Square, the printed notice that for several
weeks had hung upon the fences, sheds, and trees of
Mason’s Corner, Eastborough Centre, West Eastborough,
and Montrose.

It was now three o’clock, for that hour was
rung out by the bell on the Rev. Caleb Howe’s
church. The auctioneer prefaced his inquiry for
bids by the usual grandiloquence in use by members
of that fraternity, closing his oration with that
often-heard remark, “How much am I offered?”

The Professor, who was standing by the side of Deacon
Mason’s team, called out in a loud voice, “Fifteen
hundred!”

“Well, I’ll take that just for a starter,”
said the auctioneer, “but of course no sane
man not fitted to be the inmate of an idiotic asylum
thinks that this fine piece of ground, this long-built
and long-established grocery store, filled to overflowing
with all the necessities and delicacies of the season,
a store which has been in successful operation for
nearly forty years, and of which the good will is
worth a good deal more than the sum just bid, will
be sold for any such preposterous figure! Gentlemen,
I am listening.”

Suddenly a voice from the rear of the crowd called
out, “T-o-o-t-o to to-oo-two thousand!”

As if by magic, every head was turned, for the majority
of those in the crowd recognized the voice at once.
There was but one man in Mason’s Corner who
stammered, and that man was Hiram Maxwell.

They turned, and all saw seated in the Pettengill
team Hiram Maxwell, and beside him sat Mr. Sawyer
from Boston.

“Oh, that’s more like it,” said
the auctioneer. “Competition is the life
of trade, and is particularly pleasing to an auctioneer.
The first gentleman who bid now sees that there is
another gentleman who has a better knowledge of the
value of this fine property than he has evinced up
to the present moment. There is still an opportunity
for him to see the error of his ways, and put himself
on record as being an observing and intelligent person.”

All eyes were turned upon Strout at these words from
the auctioneer; his face reddened, and he called out,
“Twenty-five hundred!”

“Still better,” cried the auctioneer;
“the gentleman, as I supposed, has shown that
he is a person of discernment; he did not imagine that
I was engaged simply to make a present of this fine
establishment to any one who would offer any sum that
suited his convenience for it. He knew as well
as I did that there would be a sharp contest to secure
this fine property. Now, gentlemen, I am offered
twenty-five hundred, twenty-five hundred I am offered,
twenty-five hundred—­”

Page 152

Again a voice was heard from the team on the outer
limits of the crowd, “Twenty-five fifty!”

The crowd again turned their gaze upon Strout; the
Professor was not an extravagant man, and he had saved
a little money. He had in his pocket at the time
a little over a hundred dollars; he would not put it
in the bank, for, he argued, if he did everybody in
town would know how much money he had; so he called
out, “Twenty-six hundred!”

“Ah, gentlemen,” continued the auctioneer,
“let me thank you for the keen appreciation
that you show of a good thing. When I looked this
property over I said to myself, the bidders will tumble
over themselves to secure this fine property’;
and I have not been disappointed.”

Again the faces of the crowd were turned towards the
team in which sat Quincy and Hiram. Hiram stood
up in the team, and masking a horn with his hands,
shouted at the top of his voice, for the time overcoming
his propensity to stammer, “Twenty-seven hundred!”

“Better! still better!” cried the auctioneer;
“we are now approaching the figure that I had
placed on this property, and my judgment is usually
correct. I am offered twenty-seven hundred, twenty-seven
hundred; who will go one hundred better?”

At this moment Abner Stiles, who had been watching
the proceedings with eyes distended and mouth wide
open, went up to Strout and whispered something in
his ear. Strout’s face brightened, he grasped
Abner’s hand and shook it warmly, then turning
towards the auctioneer cried out, “Twenty-eight
hundred!”

By this time the crowd was getting excited. To
them it was a battle royal; nothing of the kind had
ever been seen at Mason’s Corner before.
A great many in the crowd were friends of Strout’s,
and admired his pluck in standing out so well.
They had seen at a glance that Abner Stiles had offered
to help Strout.

Again the auctioneer called out in his parrot-like
tone, “Twenty-eight hundred! I am offered
twenty-eight hundred!”

And again Hiram put his hands to his mouth, and his
voice was heard over the Square as he said, “Three
thousand!”

“Now, gentlemen,” continued the auctioneer,
“I am proud to be with you. When it is
my misfortune to stand up before a company, the members
of which have no appreciation of the value of the
property to be sold, I often wish myself at home;
but, as I said before, on this occasion I am proud
to be with you, for a sum approximating to the true
value of the property offered for sale has been bidden.
I am offered three thousand—­three thousand—­three
thousand—­going at three thousand! Did
I hear a bid? No, it must have been the wind
whistling through the trees.” At this sally
a laugh came up from the crowd. “Going at
three thousand—­going—­going—­going—­gone
at three thousand to—­”

“Mr. Hiram Maxwell!” came from the score
of voices.

“Gone at three thousand to Mr. Hiram Maxwell!”
said the auctioneer, as he brought down his hammer
heavily upon the barrel head with such force that
it fell in, and, losing his hold upon the hammer, that
dropped in also. This slight accident caused
a great laugh among the crowd.

Page 153

The auctioneer continued, “According to the
terms of the sale, five hundred dollars in cash must
be paid down to bind the bargain, and the balance
must be paid within three days in endorsed notes satisfactory
to the present owner.”

Quincy and Hiram alighted from the Pettengill team
and advanced towards the auctioneer. Reaching
the platform, Quincy took from his pocket a large
wallet and passed a pile of bills to the auctioneer.

“Make out a receipt, please,” he said
to Mr. Beers, “in the name of Mr. Hiram Maxwell;
the notes will be made out by him and endorsed by me.
If you will give a discount of six per cent, Mr. Maxwell
will pay the entire sum in cash within ten days; whichever
proposition is accepted by Mr. Hill will be satisfactory
to Mr. Maxwell.”

The show was over and the company began to disperse.
Deacon Mason nodded to Strout and turned his horse’s
head homeward. While Quincy and Hiram were settling
their business matters with the auctioneer, everybody
had left the Square with the exception of a few loungers
about the platform of the grocery store, and Strout
and Abner, who stood near the big tree in the centre
of the Square, talking earnestly to each other.

The auctioneer, together with Quincy and Hiram, entered
the store to talk over business matters with Mr. Hill
and his son. Mr. Hill argued that Mr. Sawyer
was good for any sum, and he would just as soon have
the notes; in fact, he would prefer to have them,
rather than make any discount.

This matter being adjusted, Mr. Hill treated the party
to some of his best cigars, which he kept under the
counter in a private box, and when Quincy and Hiram
came out and took their seats in the team, they looked
about the Square and found that the Professor and his
best friend were not in sight.

The next morning at about nine o’clock, Abbott
Smith arrived at Pettengill’s, having with him
Mr. Wallace Stackpole. Quincy was ready for the
trip, and they started immediately for Eastborough
Centre. On the way Quincy had plenty of time
for conversation with Mr. Stackpole. The latter
gave a true account of the cause that had led to his
losing his election as tax collector at the town meeting
a year before. He had been taken sick on the
train while coming from Boston, and a kind passenger
had given him a drink of brandy. He acknowledged
that he took too much, and that he really was unable
to walk when he reached the station at Eastborough
Centre; but he said that he was not a drinking man,
and would not have taken the brandy if he had not been
sick. They reached Eastborough Centre in due
season, but made no stop, continuing on to West Eastborough
to the home of Abbott Smith’s father.

Here Quincy was introduced to ’Bias Smith, and
found that what had been said about him was not overstated.
He was a tall, heavily-built man, with a hard, rugged
face, but with a pleasant and powerful countenance,
and, in the course of conversation, ran the whole gamut
of oratorical expression. He was what New England
country towns have so often produced—­a
natural-born orator. In addition he was an up-to-date
man. He was well read in history, and kept a
close eye on current political events, including not
only local matters, but State and National affairs
as well.

Page 154

Quincy gave him Strout’s war record that he
had obtained from the Adjutant-General’s office,
and it was read over and compared with that of Wallace
Stackpole, which was also in ’Bias Smith’s
possession. Mr. Stackpole had obtained from the
town clerk a statement of taxes due and collected
for the past twenty years, and this was also delivered
to Mr. Smith. Quincy confided to Mr. Smith several
matters that he wished attended to in town meeting,
and the latter agreed to present them, as requested.

It was finally settled that ’Bias Smith and
Mr. Stackpole should come over to Mason’s Corner
the following Saturday and see if Deacon Mason would
agree to act as moderator at the annual town meeting
on the following Monday, the warrants for same having
already been posted.

When Quincy reached home he found Hiram waiting for
him. They went in to Jacob’s Parlor and
took their accustomed seats.

“Any news?” asked Quincy.

“Not a word,” said Hiram, “neither
Strout or Abner have been seen on the street sence
the sale wuz over, but Strout has got hold of it in
some way that Huldy’s engaged to ’Zeke
Pettengill, and it’s all over town.”

At that moment Ezekiel opened the door and stepped
into the shed. There was a roguish twinkle in
his eye and a smile about his lips as he advanced
towards Quincy.

“Waal, the cat’s out o’ the bag,”
said he to Quincy.

“Yes, Hiram was just telling me that Strout
got hold of it in some way.”

“Yaas,” said Ezekiel, “he got hold
of it in the most direct way that he possibly could.”

“How’s that,” asked Quincy, “did
Miss Mason tell him?”

“Yaas,” said Ezekiel, “he seemed
to want a satisfactory reason why she couldn’t
marry him, and it sorter seemed to her that the best
reason that she could give him was that she was engaged
to marry me.”

Hiram nearly lost his seat on the chopping block while
expressing his delight, and on Quincy’s face
there was a look of quiet satisfaction that indicated
that he was quite well satisfied with the present
condition of affairs.

“By the way, Hiram,” said Quincy, “I
believe you told me once that Mrs. Hawkins, who keeps
the house where the Professor boards, is Mandy Skinner’s
mother.”

“Yaas,” said Hiram, “Mandy’s
father died and her mother married Jonas Hawkins.
He wasn’t much account afore he was married,
but I understand that he has turned out to be a rale
handy man ‘round the boardin’ house.
Mrs. Hawkins’s a mighty smart woman, and she
knew just what kind of a man she wanted.”

“Well,” said Quincy, “I want you
to tell Mandy to see her mother as soon as she can,
and engage the best room that she has left in the house
for a gentleman that I expect down here from Boston
next Monday night. Here’s ten dollars,
and have Mandy tell her that this is her week’s
pay in advance for room and board, counting from to-day.”

“Waal, I don’t believe she’ll take
it,” said Hiram; “she’s a mighty
smart woman and mighty clus in money matters, but she’s
no skin, and I don’t believe she’ll take
ten dollars for one week’s board and room.”

Page 155

“Well, if she won’t take it,” remarked
Quincy, “Mandy may have the balance of it for
her trouble. The man wants the room, and he is
able to pay for it.”

Then Quincy and Ezekiel went into the house for supper.

The next morning Quincy found that Uncle Ike had not
forgotten his promise, for he was on hand promptly,
dressed for a trip to Eastborough Centre. This
time they took the carryall and two horses, and Uncle
Ike sat on the front seat with Quincy.

They reached Eastborough Centre and found Dr. Tillotson
awaiting them. The return home was quickly made
and Uncle Ike took the doctor to the parlor.
Then he went to Alice’s room, and Quincy heard
them descend the stairs. The conversation lasted
for a full hour, and Quincy sat in his room thinking
and hoping for the best. Suddenly he was startled
from his reveries by a rap upon the door, and Uncle
Ike said the doctor was ready. Quincy drove him
back to Eastborough Centre, and on the way the doctor
gave him his diagnosis of the case and his proposed
treatment. He said it would not be necessary
for him to see her again for three weeks, or until
the medicine that he had left for her was gone.
He would come down again at a day’s notice from
Quincy.

On his return Mandy told him that Miss Alice was in
the parlor and would like to see him. As he entered
the room she recognized his footstep, and starting
to her feet turned towards him. He advanced to
meet her and took both her hands in his.

“How can I thank you, my good friend,”
said she, “for the interest that you have taken
in me, and how can I repay you for the money that you
have spent?”

Quincy was at first disposed to deny his connection
with the matter, but thinking that Uncle Ike must
have told of it, he said, “I don’t think
it was quite fair for Uncle Ike, after promising to
keep silent!”

“It was not Uncle Ike’s fault,”
broke in Alice; “it was nobody’s fault.
Nobody had told the doctor that there was any secret
about it, and so he spoke freely of your visit to
the city, and of what you had said, and of the arrangements
that you had made to have the treatment continued as
long as it produced satisfactory results. But,”
continued Alice, “how can I ever pay you this
great sum of money that it will cost for my treatment?”

“Do not worry about that, Alice,” said
he, using her Christian name for the second time,
“the money is nothing. I have more than
I know what to do with, and it is a pleasure for me
to use it in this way, if it will be of any benefit
to you. You can repay me at any time. You
will get money from your poems and your stories in
due time, and I shall not have to suffer if I have
to wait a long time for it. God knows, Alice,”
and her name fell from his lips as though he had always
called her by that name, “that if half, or even
the whole of my fortune would give you back your sight,
I would give it to you willingly. Do you believe
me?” And he took her hands again in his.

Page 156

“I believe you,” she said simply.

At that moment Mandy appeared at the door with the
familiar cry, “Supper’s ready,”
and Quincy led Alice to her old place at the table
and took his seat at her side.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Thetownmeeting.

The next day was Friday. After breakfast Quincy
went to his room and looked over the memorandum pad
upon which he had taken pleasure in jotting down the
various items of his campaign against the singing-master.
As he looked at the pad he checked off the items that
he had attended to, but suddenly started back with
an expression of disgust.

“Confound it,” said he, “I neglected
to telegraph to those congressmen when I was at Eastborough
Centre last Tuesday. I hope I’m not too
late.” He reflected for a moment, then
said to himself, “No, it’s all right;
this is the long session, and my friends will be in
Washington.”

He immediately wrote two letters to his Congressional
friends, stating that he had good reasons for having
the appointment of Obadiah Strout as postmaster at
Mason’s Corner, Mass., held up for a week.

“At the end of that time,” he wrote, “I
will either withdraw my objections or present them
in detail, accompanied by affidavits in opposition
to the appointment.”

Having finished the letters, he went downstairs to
the kitchen, and, as usual, found Hiram engaged in
conversation with Mandy.

“You are just the man I want,” said he
to Hiram; “I would like to have you take these
letters to the Mason’s Corner post office and
mail them at once. You can tell Mr. Hill that
the papers relating to the store are nearly ready,
and if he and his son will come here this afternoon
we will execute them. I would like to have you
and Mr. Pettengill on hand as witnesses.”

Hiram started off on his mission, and Quincy returned
to his room and busied himself with the preparation
of the documents for the transfer of the grocery store,
and the making out of the necessary notes to cover
the twenty-five hundred dollars due for the same.

He had not seen Alice at breakfast, nor did she appear
at the dinner table. He had followed the rule
since she came to the house not to make any open inquiries
about her health, but from words dropped by Ezekiel
and Uncle Ike, he had kept fairly well informed as
to the result of her treatment. At dinner Ezekiel
remarked that his sister had commenced to take her
new medicine, and that he reckoned it must be purty
powerful, for she had said that she didn’t wish
anything to eat, and didn’t want anything sent
to her room.

Quincy politely expressed his regrets at her indisposition
and trusted that she would soon be able to join them
again at meal time.

Page 157

About three o’clock in the afternoon, Samuel
Hill and his father arrived, and Hiram, remembering
Quincy’s instructions, had found Ezekiel Pettengill,
and all came to the room together. It took a comparatively
short time to sign, seal, and deliver the documents
and papers. It was arranged that Samuel Hill
and his father should take charge of the grocery store
and carry on the business until a week from the following
Monday; as Quincy told young Hill that he had some
business to attend to the early part of the following
week that would prevent his giving any attention to
the store until the latter part of the week.

Quincy treated his principals and witnesses to cigars,
and an interchange of ideas was made in relation to
the result of the auction sale.

“How does Strout take it?” inquired Quincy.

“I don’t know,” spoke up Hiram.
“He acts as though he thought I was pizen.
Every time he sees me he crosses over on t’other
side of the street, if we happen to be comin’
towards each other.”

“Well, I imagine,” said Quincy, “that
your usefulness to him has departed in some respects,
but it’s just as well.”

“Well,” said young Hill, “I can
tell you what he said the other night in the grocery
store. There was a crowd of his friends there,
and he remarked that you,” turning to Quincy,
“might own Hill’s grocery store, but that
wasn’t the whole earth. He said that he
had no doubt that he would be elected unanimously
as tax collector, and he was sure of his appointment
as postmaster, and if he got it he should start another
grocery store on his own hook and make it lively for
you.”

“Well,” said Quincy with a laugh, “competition
is the life of trade, and I sha’n’t object
if he does go into the business; but if he does, I
will guarantee to undersell him on every article,
and I will put on a couple of teams and hire a couple
of men, and we’ll scour Eastborough and Mason’s
Corner and Montrose for orders in the morning, and
then we’ll deliver all the goods by team in
the afternoon in regular Boston style. I never
knew just exactly what I was cut out for. I know
I don’t like studying law, and it may be, after
all, that it’s my destiny to become a grocery-man.”

Quincy took Ezekiel by the arm, led him to the window,
and whispered something to him.

Ezekiel laughed, then turned red in the face, then
finally said in an undertone, “Waal, I dunno,
seems kinder early, but I dunno but it jest as well
might be then as any other time. I hain’t
got nuthin’ ter do this afternoon, so I think
I’ll take a walk up there to see how the land
lays.”

He said, “Good afternoon” to the others
and left the room.

Quincy then took Samuel Hill by the arm in the same
manner as he had done to Ezekiel, led him to the window,
and said something to him which wrought a similar
effect to that produced upon Ezekiel.

Samuel thought for a moment and then said, “That
ain’t a bad idea; I’m satisfied if the
other party is. I’m going to drive over
this afternoon and tell the old gentleman that matters
are all fixed up, and I’ll find out if there’s
any objection to the plan. Guess I’ll go
now, as I’ve got to git back to-night.”

Page 158

So he said “Good afternoon,” and, accompanied
by his father, took his departure.

“Sit down, Hiram,” said Quincy, “I
want to have a talk with you. Have you settled
up that little matter with Mandy?”

“No,” said Hiram, “not yet; I’ve
ben tryin’ to muster up courage, but I haven’t
ben able to up to the present moment.”

“I should think,” remarked Quincy, “that
a man who had carried his captain off the field with
a shower of bullets raining about him, or who had
pushed forward with his country’s flag in the
face of a similar storm of bullets, ought not to be
afraid to ask a young girl to marry him.”

“Waal, do yer know,” said Hiram, “I’m
more afraid o’ Mandy than I would be of the
whole army.”

“Well,” said Quincy, “I don’t
see any other way for you except to walk up like a
man and meet your fate. Of course if I could do
it for you I’d be willing to oblige you.”

“No, thank yer,” said Hiram, “I
kinder reckon thet little matter had better be settled
between the two principals in the case without callin’
in a lawyer.”

Quincy leaned over and whispered something to him.

“By crickey!” said Hiram, “what
put thet idea inter yer head?”

“Oh,” said Quincy, “since I’ve
had to spend so much time plotting against my enemies,
I’ve got into the habit of thinking out little
surprises for my friends.”

“Waal, I swan!” cried Hiram, “that
would be the biggest thing ever happened in Mason’s
Corner. Well, I rather think I shall be able to
tend to that matter now, at once. One, two, three,”
said Hiram, “just think of it; well, that’s
the biggest lark that I’ve ever ben connected
with; beats buying the grocery store all holler.”

“Well,” continued Quincy, “you three
gentlemen understand it now, and if matters can be
arranged I will do my part, and I promise you all a
grand send-off; but not a word of it must be breathed
to outside parties, remember. It won’t
amount to anything unless its’ a big surprise.”

“All right,” said Hiram, “I kinder
reckon Sawyer’s surprise party will be a bigger
one than Strout’s was.”

“Oh,” continued Hiram, “I ’most
forgot. Mandy was up ter see her mother abeout
thet room for thet man that’s comin’ down
from Boston Monday night, and Mis’ Hawkins says
the price of the room is three dollars per week and
the board fifty cents a day. Mandy paid for the
room for a week, and Mis’ Hawkins says after
she takes out what the board comes to she’ll
give the balance back ter Mandy.”

“That’s all right,” said Quincy,
“I’ve heard from the man in Boston, and
he’ll surely occupy the room next Monday night.
Mandy can tell her mother to have it all ready.”

Next morning about ten o’clock, Abbott Smith
drove over from Eastborough Centre, accompanied by
his father and Wallace Stackpole. Quincy took
his place beside Mr. Stackpole on the rear seat of
the carryall, and Abbott drove off as though he intended
to return to Eastborough Centre, but when he reached
the crossroad he went through, then turning back towards
Mason’s Corner, drove on until he reached Deacon
Mason’s barn, following the same plan that Ezekiel
had on the night of the surprise party.

Page 159

They found the Deacon at home, and all adjourned to
the parlor, where ’Bias Smith stated his business,
which was to ask the Deacon to act as Moderator at
the town meeting on the following Monday. The
Deacon objected at first, but finally consented, after
Mr. Smith had explained several matters to him.

“Yer know,” said the Deacon, “my
fellow citizens have tried on several occasions to
have me run for selectman, but I reckoned thet I wuz
too old to be out so late nights and have to drive
home from Eastborough at ten or ’leven o’clock
at night. Besides I’ve worked hard in my
day, and there’s no place I like so well as
my own home. I’m alwus sorry to go away
in the mornin’ and alwus glad ter git home at
night, and although I consider that every citizen
ought ter do everything he can for the public good,
I reckon thet there’s a good many more anxious
than I am to serve the town, and I’m not so
consated but thet I think they know how ter do it
better’n I could. But as that Moderator
work comes in the daytime, as I stand ready to do
all I can for my young friend here,” turning
towards Quincy, “I’ll be on hand Monday
mornin’ and do the best I can to serve public
and private interests at the same time.”

Wallace Stackpole, while the others were talking,
had taken a couple of newspapers from his pocket,
and as Deacon Mason finished, he looked up and said,
“There’s an item here in the ‘Eastborough
Express,’ Deacon, that I imagine you’ll
be interested in. I’ll read it to you:
’We are informed on the best authority that
Miss Huldy Mason, only daughter of Deacon Abraham
Mason of Mason’s Corner, is engaged to Mr. Ezekiel
Pettengill. The day of the marriage has not been
fixed, but our readers will be informed in due season.’”

“I’m afraid, Deacon,” said Quincy,
“that’s all my fault. I met young
Chisholm last Tuesday when I was over to the Centre,
and he told me something that actually obliged me
to confide in him the fact that I knew that your daughter
was not likely to become Mrs. Obadiah Strout, but
he promised me on his word of honor that he would not
put it in the paper unless he got the same information
from some other source.”

The Deacon haw-hawed in good old-fashioned country
style.

“Waal,” said he, “young Chisholm
tackled me, and said he heard a rumor abeout Huldy
and Strout, and, as you say, Mr. Sawyer, he kinder
’bliged me to set him right. But he made
me a promise, as he did you, thet he wouldn’t
say anythin’ abeout it unless some other feller
told him the same thing.”

“That young man is sure to get ahead in the
world; he buncoed us both, Deacon,” said Quincy.

“Waal, I dunno as I know just what you mean
by buncoed,” said the Deacon, “but I kinder
think he got the best of both on us on thet point.”

As they took their places again in the carryall, Quincy
said to Mr. Smith, “If you can drive to Mr.
Pettengill’s house and wait a few minutes, I
think I’ll go over to Eastborough Centre with
you. I’m going to Boston this afternoon,
and shall not be back again until Monday night.”

Page 160

This they consented to do, and after Quincy had obtained
certain papers and had packed his travelling bag,
he left word with Mandy that he would not be back
to the house until Tuesday of the following week, and
it might be Wednesday, as he was going to Boston to
see his parents.

When they reached Eastborough Centre, Quincy went
at once to the post office; there he found a short
letter from Leopold Ernst. It read as follows:

“Dear Q:—­

“Come up and see me as soon as you can; I shall
be at home all day Sunday. Am ready to report
on the stories, but have more to say than I have time
to write.

Invariably thine,LeopoldErnst.”

Quincy then crossed the Square and entered the office
of the “Eastborough Express.” Sylvester
flushed a little as Quincy came in, but the latter
reassured him by extending his hand and shaking it
heartily.

“Is the editor in?” asked Quincy.

“No,” replied Sylvester, “he never
shows up on Saturdays.”

“Who is going to report the town meeting?”
continued Quincy.

“I am,” answered Sylvester. “The
editor will be on hand, but he told me yesterday that
he should depend on me to write the meeting up, because
he had a little political work to attend to that would
take all his time. He told me he was going over
to see ’Bias Smith on Sunday, so I imagine that
Mr. Smith and he are interested on the same side.”

“Well, Mr. Chisholm,” said Quincy, “you
managed that little matter about Miss Mason’s
engagement so neatly that I have something for you
to do for me. I’m going to Boston this
afternoon, and shall not be back until half-past seven
Monday night. I’m going over to see Mr.
Parsons when I leave here, and shall arrange with
him to supply all our boys with all they want to eat
and drink next Monday.”

“Well, the boys, as you call them, will be pretty
apt to be hungry and thirsty next Monday,” laughed
Sylvester.

“That’s all right,” said Quincy,
“I’ll stand the bills.”

“How’s Parsons going to know which are
our boys?” continued Chisholm. “They
ought to have some kind of badge or some kind of a
password, or your enemies, as well as your friends,
will be eating up your provisions.”

“That’s what I want you to attend to,”
added Quincy. “I’ll arrange with
Parsons that if anybody gives him the letters B D on
the quiet, he is to consider that they are on our
side, and mustn’t take any money from them,
but chalk it up on my score. Now, I depend upon
you, Mr. Chisholm, to give the password to the faithful,
and to pay you for your time and trouble just take
this.”

And he passed a twenty-dollar bill to Sylvester.
The latter drew back.

“No, Mr. Sawyer,” said he, “I cannot
take any money for that service. This work is
to be done, for I understand the whole business, to
defeat the man who, I think, has treated my sister
in a very mean manner, and I’m willing to work
all day and all night without any pay to knock that
fellow out. Let’s put it that way,—­I’m
working against him, and not for you; and, looking
at it that way, of course, there’s no reason
why you should pay me anything.”

Page 161

“All right,” rejoined Quincy, “I
should have no feeling if you took the money, but
I can appreciate your sentiments, and will have no
feeling because you do not take it. One of these
days I may be able to do as great a service for you,
as you are willing to do for me between now and next
Monday.”

They shook hands and parted, and Quincy made his way
to the Eagle Hotel, of which Mr. Seth Parsons was
the proprietor. Mr. Parsons greeted him heartily
and invited him into his private room. Here Quincy
told the arrangement that he had made with young Chisholm,
and gave him the password.

“Don’t stint them,” said Quincy,
“let them have a good time; but don’t
let anybody know who pays for it. I shall be down
on the half-past seven express, Monday night, and
I would like to have a nice little dinner for eight
or nine people ready in your private dining-room at
eight o’clock. Mr. Tobias Smith knows who
my guests are to be, and if I am delayed from any
cause, he will tell you who are entitled to go in and
eat the dinner.”

The next train to Boston was due in ten minutes, and
shaking hands with the hotel proprietor, he made his
way quickly to the station. As he reached the
platform he noticed that Abner Stiles was just driving
away; the thought flashed through his mind that somebody
from Mason’s Corner was going to the city; but
that was no uncommon event, and the thought passed
from him.

He entered the car, and, to his surprise, found that
it was filled; every seat in sight was taken.
He walked forward and espied a seat near the farther
end of the car. He noticed that a lady sat near
the window; when he reached it he raised his hat,
and leaning forward, said politely, “Is this
seat taken?”

“No, sir,” replied a pleasant, but somewhat
sad voice, and he sank into the seat without further
thought as to its other occupant.

When they reached the first station beyond Eastborough
Centre he glanced out of the window, and as he did
so, noticed that his companion was Miss Lindy Putnam.

“Why, Miss Putnam,” cried he, turning
towards her, “how could I be so ungallant as
not to recognize you?”

“Well,” replied Lindy, “perhaps
it’s just as well that you didn’t; my
thoughts were not very pleasant, and I should not have
been a very entertaining companion.”

“More trouble at home?” he inquired in
a low voice.

“Yes,” answered Lindy, in a choked voice,
“since Mr. Putnam died it has been worse than
ever. While he lived she had him to talk to; but
now she insists on talking to me, and sends for me
several times a day, ostensibly to do something for
her, but really simply to get me in the room so she
can talk over the old, old story, and say spiteful
and hateful things to me. May Heaven pardon me
for saying so, Mr. Sawyer, but I am thankful that
it’s nearly at an end.”

“Why, what do you mean,” asked Quincy,
“is she worse?”

Page 162

“Yes,” said Lindy, “she is failing
very rapidly physically, but her voice and mental
powers are as strong as ever; in fact, I think she
is more acute in her mind and sharper in her words
than she has ever been before. Dr. Budd ordered
some medicine that I could not get at the Centre,
and so there was no way for me except to go to the
city for it. Let me tell you now, Mr. Sawyer,
something that I should have been obliged to write
to you, if I had not seen you. I shall stay with
Mrs. Putnam until she dies, for I promised Jones that
I would, and I could never break any promise that
I made to him; but the very moment that she’s
dead I shall leave the house and the town forever!”

“Shall you not stay to the funeral?” said
Quincy; “what will the townspeople say?”

“I don’t care what they say,” rejoined
Lindy, in a sharp tone; “she is not my mother,
and I will not stay to the funeral and hypocritically
mourn over her, when in my secret heart I shall be
glad she is dead.”

“Those are harsh words,” said Quincy.

“Not one-tenth nor one-hundredth as harsh and
unfeeling as those she has used to me,” said
Lindy. “No, my mind is made up; my trunks
are all packed, and she will not be able to lock me
in my room this time. I shall leave town by the
first train after her death, and Eastborough will
never see me nor hear from me again.”

“But how about your friends,” asked Quincy,
“supposing that I should find out something
that would be of interest to you; supposing that I
should get some information that might lead to the
discovery of your real parents, how could I find you?”

“Well,” replied Lindy, “if you will
give me your promise that you will not disclose to
any one what I am going to say, I will tell you how
to find me.”

“You have my word,” replied Quincy.

“Well,” answered Lindy, “I’m
going to New York! I would tell you where, but
I don’t know. But if you wish to find me
at any time advertise in the Personal Column of the
‘New York Herald’; address it to Linda,
and sign it Eastborough,” said she, after a
moment’s thought. “I shall drop the
name of Putnam when I arrive in New York, but what
name I shall take I have not yet decided upon; it
will depend upon circumstances. But I shall have
the ‘New York Herald’ every day, and if
you advertise for me I shall be sure to see it.”

She then relapsed into silence, and Quincy forbore
to speak any more, as he saw she was busy with her
own thoughts. They soon reached the city and
parted at the door of the station. She gave him
her hand, and as he held it in his for a moment, he
said, “Good-by, Miss Linda.” She thanked
him for not saying “Miss Putnam” with a
glance of her eyes. “I may not see you
again, but you may depend upon me. If I hear of
anything that will help you in your search for your
parents, my time shall be given to the matter, and
I will communicate with you at the earliest moment.
Good-by.”

Page 163

He raised his hat and they parted.

Town Meeting Day proved to be a bright and pleasant
one. At nine o’clock the Town Hall was
filled with the citizens of Eastborough. They
had come from the Centre, they had come from West
Eastborough and from Mason’s Corner. There
were very nearly four hundred gathered upon the floor,
the majority of them being horny-handed sons of toil,
or, more properly speaking, independent New England
farmers.

When Jeremiah Spinney, the oldest man in town, who
had reached the age of ninety-two, and who declared
that he hadn’t “missed a town meetin’
for seventy year,” called the meeting to order,
a hush fell upon the assemblage. In a cracked,
but still distinct voice, he called for a nomination
for Moderator of the meeting. Abraham Mason’s
name, of Mason’s Corner, was the only one presented.
The choice was by acclamation; for it was acknowledged
on all sides that Deacon Mason was as square a man
as there was in town.

The newly-elected Moderator took the chair and called
upon the clerk to read the warrant for the meeting.
This was soon done, and the transaction of the town’s
business begun in earnest. It will be, of course,
impossible and unnecessary to give a complete and connected
account of all that took place in town meeting on that
day. For such an account the trader is referred
to the columns of the “Eastborough Express,”
for it was afterwards acknowledged on all sides that
the account of the meeting written by Mr. Sylvester
Chisholm was the most graphic and comprehensive that
had ever appeared in that paper. We have to do
only with those items in the warrant that related directly
or indirectly to those residents of the town with
whom we are interested.

When the question of appropriating a certain sum for
the support of the town Almshouse was reached, Obadiah
Strout sprang to his feet and called out, “Mister
Moderator,” in a loud voice. He was recognized,
and addressed the chair as follows:

“Mister Moderator, before a vote is taken on
the questions of appropriatin’ for the support
of the town poor, I wish to call the attention of
my fellow-citizens to a matter that has come to my
knowledge durin’ the past year. A short
time ago a man who had been a town charge for more
than three years, and whose funeral expenses were
paid by the town, was discovered by me to be the only
brother of a man livin’ in Boston, who is said
to be worth a million dollars. A very strange
circumstance was that the son of this wealthy man,
and a nephew of this town pauper, has been livin’
in this town for several months, and spendin’
his money in every way that he could think of to attract
attention, but it never occurred to him that he could
have used his money to better advantage if he had
taken some of it and paid it to the town for takin’
care of his uncle. These facts are well known
to many of us here, and I move that a ballot—­”

Tobias Smith had been fidgeting uneasily in his seat
while Strout was speaking, and when he mentioned the
word “ballot,” he could restrain himself
no longer, but jumped to Bids feet and called out in
his stentorian voice, “Mister Moderator, I rise
to a question of privilege.”

Page 164

“I have the floor,” shouted Strout, “and
I wish to finish my remarks. This is only an
attempt of the opposition to shut me off. I demand
to be heard!”

The Moderator brought his gavel down on the table
and called out, “Order, order.” Then
turning to Tobias, he said, “Mr. Smith, state
your question of privilege.”

Strout sank into his seat, his face livid with passion;
turning to Stiles, he said, “This is all cooked
up between ’em. You know you told me you
saw Smith and Stackpole and that city chap drivin’
away from the Deacon’s house last Saturday mornin’.”

Stiles nodded his head and said, “I guess you’re
right.”

Mr. Smith continued, “My question of privilege,
Mister Moderator, is this: I desire to present
it now, because when I’ve stated it, my fellow
citizen,” turning to Strout, “will find
that it’s unnecessary to make any motion in
relation to the matter to which he has referred.
I hold in my hand a letter from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer,
whose father is the Hon. Nathaniel Sawyer of Boston,
and whose uncle was Mr. James Sawyer, who died in
the Eastborough Poorhouse several weeks ago. By
conference with Mr. Waters, who is in charge of the
Poorhouse, and with the Town Treasurer, he ascertained
that the total expense to which the town of Eastborough
has been put for the care of his uncle was four hundred
and sixty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents.
I hold his check for that sum, drawn to the order
of the Town Treasurer, and certified to be good by
the cashier of the Eastborough National Bank.
He has requested me to offer this check to the town,
and that a receipt for the same be given by the Town
Treasurer.”

Strout jumped to his feet.

“Mister Moderator, I am glad to learn,”
cried he, “that this son of a millionaire has
had his heart touched and his conscience pricked by
the kindness shown by the town of Eastborough to his
uncle, and I move the check be accepted and a receipt
given by the Town Treasurer, as requested.”

“Second the motion!” called out Abner
Stiles.

“Before puttin’ the question,” said
the Moderator slowly, “I want to say a few words
on this matter, and as it may be thought not just proper
for me to speak from the chair, I will call upon the
Rev. Caleb Howe to take the same durin’ my remarks.”

The well-known clergyman at Mason’s Corner came
forward, ascended the platform, took the chair, and
recognized Deacon Mason’s claim to be heard.

“I have heerd the motion to accept this check,
an’ I desire ter say thet I am teetotally opposed
to the town’s takin’ this money. If
the Honorable Nathaniel Sawyer, who’s the dead
man’s brother, or Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer, who’s
his nephew, had known that he wuz a pauper, they would
’er relieved the town of any further charge.
We hev no legal claim agin either of these two gentlemen.

Page 165

Our claim is agin ther town of Amesbury, in which
Mr. James Sawyer was a citizen and a taxpayer.
If Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer wishes to pay ther town
of Amesbury after ther town of Amesbury has paid us,
thet’s his affair and none o’ our business,
but we’ve no legal right to accept a dollar
from him, when our legal claim is agin the town in
which he hed a settlement, and I hope this motion
will not prevail.”

As Deacon Mason regained the platform loud cries of
“Vote! Vote! Vote!” came from
all parts of the hall.

Tellers were appointed, and in a few moments the result
of the vote was announced. In favor of Mr. Strout’s
motion to accept the check, eighty-five. Opposed,
two hundred and eighty. And it was not a vote.

“We will now proceed,” said the Moderator,
as he resumed the chair, “to consider the question
of appropriating money for the support of the Poor-farm.”

The next matter on the warrant of general interest
was the appropriation of a small sum of money to purchase
some reference books for the town library, which consisted
of but a few hundred volumes stowed away in a badly-lighted
and poorly-ventilated room on the upper floor of the
Town Hall.

This question brought to his feet Zachariah Butterfield,
who was looked upon as the watchdog of the town treasury.
He had not supported Strout on the question of accepting
the check, because he knew the position taken by the
Moderator was legally correct, and he was very careful
in opposing appropriations to attack only those where,
as it seemed to him, he had a good show of carrying
his point. He had been successful so often, that
with him success was a duty, for he had a reputation
to maintain.

“Mister Moderator,” he said, “I’m
agin appropriatin’ any more money for this ’ere
town lib’ry. We hev got plenty of schoolbooks
in our schools; we hev got plenty of books and newspapers
in our houses, and it’s my opinion thet those
people who spend their time crawlin’ up three
flights er stairs and readin’ those books had
better be tillin’ ther soil, poundin’
on ther anvil, or catchin fish. Neow, I wuz talkin’
with Miss Burpee, the librari’n, and she sez
they want a new Wooster’s Dictshuneery, ’cause
ther old one iz all worn eout. Neow, I looked
through the old one, and I couldn’t see but what
it’s jest as good as ever; there may be a few
pages missin’, but what’s thet amount ter
when there’s more’n a couple of thousan’
on ’em left?”

Mr. Tobias Smith was again fidgeting in his seat.
He evidently had something to say and was anxious
to say it.

Mr. Butterfield continued: “Neow, to settle
this question onct fer all, I make ther motion that
this ’ere lib’ry be closed up and the librari’n
discharged; she gits a dollar a week, and ther town
ken use that fifty-two dollars a year, in my opinion,
to better advantege.”

“Mister Moderator,” came again from Mr.
Tobias Smith, “I rise to a question of privilege—­”

Page 166

Mr. Butterfield kept on talking: “Mister
Moderator, this is not a question of privilege; this
is a question of expenditure of money for a needless
purpose. Yes, Mister Moderator, for a needless
purpose.”

Mr. Butterfield had evidently lost the thread of his
discourse, and Mr. Smith, taking advantage of his
temporary indecision, said, “I agree with the
gentleman who has just spoken; I am in favor of closing
up this musty, dusty old room, and saving the further
expenditure of money upon it.”

Mr. Butterfield, hearing these words, and not having
sufficiently collected his thoughts to say anything
himself, nodded approvingly and sank into his seat.

Mr. Smith continued, “I have a proposition to
submit in relation to the town library. I hold
in my hand a letter from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer,
whose name has been previously mentioned—­”

Mr. Strout jumped to his feet.

“Mister Moderator, I rise to a question of privilege.”

“I second the motion!” cried Abner Stiles.

“State your question of privilege, Mr. Strout,”
said the Moderator.

“I wish to inquire,” answered Strout,
“if the time of this town meetin’ is to
be devoted to the legitimate business of the town,
or is it to be fooled away in hearin’ letters
read from a person who is not a citizen of the town,
and who is not entitled to be heard in this town meetin’?”

“Mister Moderator,” said Mr. Smith, “I
am a citizen of this town, and I’m entitled
to be heard in this meeting, and the matter that I’m
about to bring to the attention of this meeting is
a most important one and affects the interests of
the town materially. I consider that I have a
right to read this letter or any other letter that
relates to the question before the meeting, which
is, ’Shall money be appropriated to buy books
for what is called the town library?’ I say no;
and my reason for this is contained in this letter,
which I propose to read.”

“Go on, Mr. Smith,” said the Moderator.

“Well,” continued Mr. Smith, “Mr.
Quincy Adams Sawyer, in this letter, offers to the
town of Eastborough the sum of five thousand dollars,
to be used either for purchasing books and paying
the expenses of a library to be located in the Town
Hall; or a portion of the money may be used to build
a suitable building, and the balance for the equipment
and support of the library.”

Mr. Butterfield was on his feet again.

“Mister Moderator, I’m agin acceptin’
this donation. If we take it, we shall only jump
out er the fryin-pan inter the fire; instead of buyin’
a few books and payin’ the librari’n a
dollar a week, we shall hev to hev a jan’ter
for the new buildin’, and pay fer insurance,
and we shell hev ter hev a librari’n ev’ry
day in ther week, and by’m by the ungodly will
want ter hev it open on a Sunday, so thet they kin
hev a place to loaf in; and I’m agin the whole
bizness teetotally. I’ve sed my say; neow,
you kin go ahead, and do jest as you please.”

Page 167

This was Mr. Butterfield’s usual wind-up to
his arguments; but on this occasion it seemed to fail
of its effect.

The Moderator said, “Was Mr. Butterfield’s
motion seconded?” There was no response.
“Then the matter before the meeting is the question
of appropriating money for the support of the town
library.”

“Mister Moderator,” said Mr. Smith, “I
move that the donation from Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer
be accepted, and that the library be named ’The
Sawyer Free Public Library of the Town of Eastborough.’”

“Second the motion!” came from a hundred
voices.

Strout was on his feet again.

“Mister Moderator,” said he, “I
move to amend the motion by havin’ it read that
we decline, that the town declines the donation without
thanks.”

A loud laugh arose from the assemblage.

Abner Stiles had evidently misinterpreted Mr. Strout’s
motion, for he called out, “Mister Moderator,”
and when he got the floor, “I move to amend
so that the motion would read, this library shall be
called the Strout Free Library of the Town of Eastborough.”

This was greeted with shouts of laughter, and Strout
grasped Abner by his coat collar and pulled him violently
back upon the settee.

“Shut up, you fool,” cried he between
his teeth to Abner; “do you want to make a laughin’
stock of me?”

“I kinder thought I wuz a-helpin’ yer,”
said Abner, as he ran his fingers down under his chin
and pulled away his shirt collar, which had been drawn
back so forcibly that it interfered with his breathing.

“The question now,” said the Moderator,
“is on the adoption of Mr. Smith’s motion.
Those in favor will please stand up and be counted.”

When the tellers had attended to their duty the Moderator
said, “Those opposed will now rise and be counted.”

The vote was soon announced. In favor of accepting
the donation, three hundred and one; opposed, fifty-eight.

“It’s a vote,” declared the Moderator.

A dozen matters of minor importance were quickly disposed
of, and but one remained upon the warrant, with the
exception of the election of town officers. Little
squads of the members were now gathered together talking
over the most important question of the meeting, which
was the election of town officers for the ensuing
year. The last item on the warrant read:
“Will the town appropriate money to buy a new
hearse?”

Mr. Butterfield had evidently been holding himself
in reserve, for he was on his feet in an instant,
and he secured the eye of the Moderator and the floor.

“Mister Moderator,” began Mr. Butterfield,
“I desire to raise my voice agin this biznez
of unnecessary and unexampled extravagance. What
do we want of a new hearse? Those who are dead
and in the cemetery don’t find any fault with
the one we’ve got, and those who are livin’
have no present use for it, and why should they complain?
I know what this means. This is only an enterin’

Page 168

wedge. If this ’ere bill passes and we
git a new hearse, then it’ll be said thet ther
horses don’t look as well as the hearse, and
then if ther hearse gits out in ther storm, we shell
hev ter pay money to git it polished up agin, and we
who are livin’ will hev to work harder and harder
for the benefit of those who are jest as well satisfied
with the old hearse as they would be with a new one.
I move, Mister Moderator, that instid of buyin’
a new hearse, thet ther old one be lengthened six
inches, which ken be done at a slight expense.”

Mr. Tobias Smith now took the floor.

“I am glad that my friend has not opposed this
measure entirely, but has provided for my proper exit
from this world when my time comes. I must confess
that it has troubled me a great deal when I have thought
about that hearse. I was born down in the State
of Maine, where the boys and the trees grow up together.
I stand six feet two in my stockings and six feet
three with my boots on, and I haven’t looked
forward with any pleasure to being carried to my last
resting place in a hearse that was only six feet long.
I second Mr. Butterfield’s motion, but move to
amend it by extending the length to seven feet.”

The vote was taken, and Mr. Butterfield’s motion
was carried by a vote of three hundred and forty to
twenty-two. Mr. Butterfield sank back in his
seat with an expression on his face that seemed to
say, “I’ve done the town some service
to-day.”

The Moderator then rose and said, “Fellow-citizens,
all the business matters upon the warrant have now
been disposed of. We will now proceed to the
election of town officers for the ensuing year.”

Mr. Stackpole rose and called out, “Mister Moderator,
it is now nearly twelve o’clock, and some of
us had to leave home quite early this morning in order
to be in time at the meeting. I move that we adjourn
till one o’clock, at which time balloting for
town officers usually commences.”

Forty voices cried out, “Second the motion,”
and although Strout, Stiles, and several others jumped
to their feet and endeavored to secure the Moderator’s
eye, the motion was adopted by an overwhelming vote,
and the greater portion of the members made their
way out of the hall and directed their steps towards
the Eagle Hotel, as if the whole matter had been prearranged.
Here, Mr. Parsons, the proprietor, had set out a most
tempting lunch in the large dining-room, and those
who were able to give the password were admitted to
the room, and feasted to their heart’s content.

Abner Stiles, impelled by curiosity, had followed
the party, and had noticed that each one said something
to the proprietor before he was admitted to the dining-room.
Going up to Parsons, he said, “What’s goin’
on in there?”

“Oh, I guess they’re having a caucus,”
replied Mr. Parsons.

“When thet last feller went in,” said
Abner, “I saw that the table was all set, and
I kinder ‘magined they must be havin’ a
dinner. I’d kinder like some myself.”

Page 169

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Parsons,
“but I cannot accommodate any more than have
already applied. You can get a lunch over to the
railroad station, you know, if you want one.”

“Well, I guess you’ll find out when they
get back to the Town Hall,” remarked Mr. Parsons;
and he stepped forward to greet three or four other
citizens, who leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Mr. Parsons smiled and nodded, and opening the door
admitted them to the dining-room.

“Well, that beats all,” said Abner, as
he went out on the platform in front of the hotel.
“They jest whispered somethin’ to him and
he let ’em right in. I kinder think somethin’s
goin’ on and thet Strout ain’t up to it.
Guess I’ll go back and tell him,” which
he proceeded to do.

He found Strout and some sixty or seventy of the citizens
still remaining in the Town Hall, the majority of
whom were eating the luncheons that they had brought
with them from home. Taking Strout aside, Abner
confided to him the intelligence of which he had become
possessed.

“’D’yer know what it means?”
asked Abner.

“No, I don’t,” said Strout, “but
I bet a dollar that it’s some of that city chap’s
doin’s. Is he ’round about town this
mornin’?”

“No,” said Abner, “he went to Bosting
on the same train with Miss Lindy Putnam, for I fetched
her down, and I saw him git inter the same car with
her as I wuz drivin’ off.”

One o’clock soon arrived, and the large party
that had regaled themselves with the appetizing viands
and non-alcoholic beverages supplied by mine host
of the Eagle Hotel came back to the Town Hall in the
best of spirits. The majority of them were smoking
good cigars, which had been handed to them by the
proprietor, as they passed from the dining-room.

When asked if there was anything to pay, Mr. Parsons
shook his head and remarked sententiously, “This
is not the only present that the town has received
to-day,” which was a delicate way of insinuating
the name of the donor of the feast without actually
mentioning it.

The election of a dozen minor officers calls for no
special attention, except to record the fact that
Abner Stiles, who had cautiously taken a position
several settees removed from Strout, arose as the nominations
were made for each office, and in every case nominated
Mr. Obadiah Strout for the position, and it is needless
to add that Mr. Obadiah Strout had at least one vote
for each office in the gift of the town.

The nomination of a collector of taxes for the town
was finally reached. Abner Stiles was first on
his feet, and being recognized by the Moderator, nominated
“Mr. Obadiah Strout, who had performed the duties
of the office so efficiently during the past year.”

Now the battle royal began. Mr. Tobias Smith
next obtained the floor and nominated Mr. Wallace
Stackpole.

Page 170

“In presenting this nomination, Mister Moderator,
I do it out of justice to an old soldier who served
the country faithfully, and who lost the election
a year ago on account of an untrue statement that was
widely circulated and which could not be refuted in
time to affect the question of his election.
I hold in my hand three documents. The first one
is a certified copy of the war record of Wallace Stackpole,
who entered one of our regiments of Volunteers as
a private, served throughout the war, and was honorably
discharged with the rank of captain. This record
shows that during his four years of service he was
three times wounded; in one instance so badly that
for weeks his life hung by a thread, and it was only
by the most careful treatment that amputation of his
right arm was avoided. I hold here also the war
record of the present incumbent of the office.
From it I learn that he entered the army as a private
and was discharged at the end of two years still holding
the rank of private, and sent home as an invalid.
He is not to blame for this, but inspecting his record
I find that within a month after he joined the army
he was detailed for service in the hospital, and during
the two years of his connection with the army he was
never engaged in a single battle, not even in a skirmish.”

Cries rose from certain parts of the hall in opposition
to the speaker, and Deacon Mason remarked that while
it was perfectly proper to compare the war records
of the two candidates for the position, it must be
borne in mind that because a man was a soldier, or,
rather, because he did a little more fighting than
the other one, was no reason that he would make a
better tax collector.

The Moderator’s remarks were greeted with applause,
and Strout’s face brightened.

“I am glad to see the Deacon’s bound to
have fair play,” said he to an old farmer who
sat next to him.

“Waal, I guess you’re more liable to git
it than you are disposed to give it,” drawled
the old farmer, who evidently was not an adherent of
the present incumbent of the office.

Mr. Tobias Smith continued his remarks:

“I acknowledge the correctness of the remarks
just made by our honored Moderator, and desire to
say that I hold in my hand a third document, which
is a statement of the taxes due and collected during
the past twenty years by the different persons who
have held the office of tax collector. I find
during nineteen years of that time that the lowest
percentage of taxes left unpaid at the end of the year
was five per cent; the highest percentage during these
nineteen years, and that occurred during the war,
was fourteen per cent; but I find that during the
past year only seventy-eight per cent of the taxes
due have been collected, leaving twenty-two per cent
still due the town, and the non-receipt of this money
will seriously hamper the selectmen during the coming
year, unless we choose a man who can give his entire
time to the business and collect the money that is
due. This statement is certified to by the town
treasurer, and I do not suppose that the present incumbent
will presume to question its accuracy.”

Page 171

Strout evidently thought that a further discussion
of the matter might work to his still greater disadvantage,
for he leaned over and spoke to one of his adherents,
who rose and said:

“Mister Moderator, this discussion has taken
a personal nature, in which I am not disposed to indulge.
I don’t think that anything will be gained by
such accusations and comparisons. It strikes me
that the last speaker is trying to give tit for tat
because his candidate lost at the last election; but
I am one of those who believe that criminations and
recriminations avail nothing, and I move that we proceed
to vote at once.”

“Second the motion!” screamed Abner Stiles
from the settee on which he had assumed a standing
posture.

The vote was taken. Those in favor of Obadiah
Strout being called upon to stand up first, they numbered
exactly one hundred and one. Then those in favor
of Wallace Stackpole were called upon to rise, and
they numbered two hundred and eighty-four; several
citizens having put in an appearance at one o’clock
who had not attended the morning session.

The next matter was the election of the Board of Selectmen;
and the old board was elected by acclamation without
a division. The meeting then adjourned without
day.

The five minutes past six train, express from Boston,
arrived on time, and at twenty minutes of eight, Mr.
Quincy Adams Sawyer entered the private dining-room
in the Eagle Hotel. There he found gathered Mr.
Tobias Smith, Mr. Wallace Stackpole, Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill,
Mr. Sylvester Chisholm, and the Board of Selectmen,
making the party of eight which Quincy had mentioned.
It was eleven o’clock before the dinner party
broke up, and during that time Quincy had heard from
one or another of the party a full account of the
doings at the town meeting.

It is needless to say that he was satisfied with the
results, but he said nothing to indicate that fact
in the presence of the Board of Selectmen. They
were the first to leave, and then there was an opportunity
for mutual congratulations by the remaining members
of the party. To these four should be added Mr.
Parsons, the proprietor, upon whose face rested a
broad smile when he presented his bill for the day’s
expenses, and the sum was paid by Quincy.

“We had a very pleasant time,” remarked
Mr. Parsons to Mr. Sawyer as he bade him good evening.

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Quincy,
“and I regret very much that my business in
the city prevented my being here to enjoy it.”

On the way home with Ezekiel they went over the events
of the day again together, and Ezekiel told him many
little points, that for obvious reasons had been omitted
at the dinner party.

Quincy was driven directly to Mrs. Hawkins’s
boarding house, for he had explained his programme
to Ezekiel. He turned up his coat collar and
pulled his hat down over his eyes, as he was admitted;
and, although Mrs. Hawkins’s eyes were naturally
sharp, she did not recognize the late comer, who proceeded
upstairs to his room, which Mrs. Hawkins informed
him was right opposite the head of the stairs, and
there was a light burning in the room and a good warm
fire, and if he needed anything, if he would just
call to her inside of the next ten minutes, she would
get it for him.

Page 172

Quincy said nothing, but went into his room and shut
the door, and there we will leave him.

As Strout and Abner drove back to Mason’s Corner,
after the adjournment of the town meeting, nothing
was said for the first mile of the trip.

Then Abner turned to him and remarked, “You
ought ter be well satisfied with to-day’s perceedin’s.”

“How do you make that out?” growled Strout.

“Waal, I think the events proved,” said
Abner, “that you wuz the most pop’lar
man in ther town.”

“How do you make that out?” again growled
Strout.

“Why,” said Abner, “you wuz nominated
for every office in the gift o’ ther town, and
that’s more’n any other feller could say.”

“If you don’t shut up,” said Strout,
“I’ll nominate you for town idyut, and
there won’t be any use of any one runnin’
agin yer!”

Abner took his reproof meekly. He always did
when Strout spoke to him. No more was said until
they reached home. Strout entered the boarding
house and went upstairs to his room, forgetting that
there was a man from Boston, to arrive late that evening,
who was to have the next room to his.

Abner put up the horse and went home. As he went
by Strout’s door, thoughts of the rum and molasses,
and the good cigar that he had enjoyed the night of
the surprise party one week ago went through his mind,
and he stopped before Strout’s door and listened
attentively, but there was no sound, and he went upstairs
disconsolately, and went to bed feeling that his confidence
in the Professor had been somewhat diminished by the
events of the day.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Mrs. Hawkins’ boardinghouse.

Mrs. Hawkins waited patiently until eight o’clock
for the gentleman from Boston to come down to breakfast.
She then waited impatiently from eight o’clock
till nine. During that time she put the breakfast
on the stove to keep it warm, and also made several
trips to the front entry, where she listened to see
if she could hear any signs of movement on the part
of her new boarder.

When nine o’clock arrived she could restrain
her impatience no longer, and, going upstairs, she
gave a sharp knock on the door of Quincy’s room.

“It beats all,” repeated Mrs. Hawkins,
“how these city folks can sit up till twelve
o’clock at night, and then go without their breakfast
till noontime. I’ve fixed up somethin’
pretty nice for him, and I don’t propose to
see it wasted.”

Page 173

“What are you goin’ to do with it?”
asked Betsy. “’Twon’t keep till
to-morrer mornin’.”

“I’m goin’ to eat it myself,”
said Mrs. Hawkins. And suiting the action to
the word, she transferred the appetizing breakfast
to the kitchen table, and, taking a seat, began to
devour it.

“Have you seen your sister, Samanthy, lately?”
she asked.

“I was up there Sunday evening,” replied
Betsy, “and she said Mis’ Putnam was failin’
very fast. She keeps her bed all the time now,
and Samanthy has to run up and down stairs, ’bout
forty times a day. She won’t let Miss Lindy
do a thing for her.”

“Well, if I was Lindy,” said Mrs. Hawkins,
“I wouldn’t do anything for her if she
wanted me to. She used to abuse that child shamefully.
Is Miss Lindy goin’ to keep house arter her
mother dies?”

“No,” said Betsy, “she’s got
her things all packed up, and she told Samanthy she
should leave town for well and good as soon as her
mother was buried.”

“Oh, she says she wants to rest awhile afore
she goes anywheres else to live. She’s
all run down.”

“P’r’aps she’ll go and stay
with yer mother for a while.”

“No,” said Betsy, “she won’t
go there.”

“Ain’t yer mother ‘n’ her
on good terms?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Betsy, “but the
four boys send mother five dollars a month apiece,
and us girls give her two dollars a month apiece, and
it’s understood that none of us is to go and
loaf ’round at home, ’less we pay our
board.”

“That’s all right,” said Mrs. Hawkins.
“You can tell Samanthy for me that she can come
here and stay a couple o’ weeks with you.
Your bed’s big enough for two, and I won’t
charge her no board if she’s willin’ to
wait on table at dinner time. You’ll get
the benefit of it, ye know, Betsy, for you kin get
the dinner dishes done so much earlier.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Hawkins,”
said Betsy, and the conversation lapsed for a moment
till she inquired, “Will your daughter Mandy
stay with Mr. Pettengill arter he marries Huldy Mason?”

“Wall, I fancy she does,” replied Mrs.
Hawkins; “and I’ve no objections to him,
seein’ as that Mr. Sawyer is goin’ to put
him inter the grocery store and back him up.
But Mandy says that he won’t come to the pi’nt.
He hints and hints and wobbles all ’round the
question, but he don’t ask her to marry him
right out and out. Mandy says she won’t
gin in until he does, for if she does, she says he’ll
be chuckin’ it at her one of these days that
he didn’t ask her to marry him and be sayin’
as how she threw herself at him, but there’s
too much of the old Job Skinner spirit in Mandy for
her to do anythin’ like that.”

Page 174

At this moment Mrs. Hawkins looked up and saw Hiram
Maxwell standing in the half-open doorway that led
into the wood-shed.

“List’ners never hear any good of themselves,”
remarked Mrs. Hawkins, as Hiram advanced into the
room.

“I didn’t hear nothin’,” said
Hiram. “I’ve got too many things in
my head to tell yer to mind any women’s talk,”
he continued.

“What is it?” cried Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy
simultaneously.

“Well, fust,” said Hiram, “early
this mornin’ your sister Samanthy,” here
he looked at Betsy, “came tearin’ down
to Deacon Mason’s house and said as how Mis’
Hepsey Putnam was powerful bad, and she wanted me
to run down to ’Zeke Pettengill’s and have
him bring his sister right up to the house, ‘cause
Mis’ Putnam wanted to see her afore she died,
and the Deacon’s wife said as how I could go
up with him and her, and so we druv up, and a little
while ago your sister Samanthy,” here he looked
at Betsy again, “asked me if I’d drive
over and ask Mis’ Hawkins if you,” here
he looked at Betsy for the third time, “could
come up and stay with her this arternoon, for she
thinks Mis’ Putnam is goin’ to die, and
she don’t want to be left alone up in that big
house.”

“Samanthy will be much obleeged, Mis’
Hawkins,” said Hiram. “I’ll
drive right back and tell her, and I’ll drive
down agin about one o’clock arter Betsy.”

“List’ners get a good p’int now
and then,” remarked Hiram to himself. “Now
I see what made Mandy so durned offish. Wall,
she won’t have any excuse in the future.
I guess I kin ask her a straight question when I git
good and ready, Mother Hawkins.” And he
struck the horse such a violent blow with the whip
that it required all his attention for the next few
minutes to bring him down to a trot. When he had
done so he had reached his destination and his resentful
feelings had subsided.

After Hiram had gone, Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy busied
themselves getting dinner. Happening to glance
out of the window, the former exclaimed, “Why,
there’s Jonas, and what on airth has he got in
his hands?”

Betsy ran to the window and looked out.

“I guess it’s a head of lettuce,”
said she.

At that moment the door opened and Jonas Hawkins entered,
bearing a huge head of lettuce in his hand.

“Wall, Marthy,” said Mr. Hawkins, “how
did the man from Bosting like his breakfast?
I kalkilated them fresh-laid eggs would suit him to
a T.”

“He ain’t got up yet,” replied Mrs.
Hawkins.

“Must have been putty tired,” continued
Mr. Hawkins. “I kinder envy him. Do
yer know, Marthy, if I wuz rich I wouldn’t ’git
up any day till it wuz time to go to bed agin.”
And he laughed loudly at his own remark.

Page 175

“What do yer expect me to do with that head
of lettuce?” asked Mrs. Hawkins with some asperity
in her tone.

“Wall,” said Jonas, “I was over
to Hill’s grocery and he’d ordered some
from Bosting for Mis’ Putnam, but she’s
too sick to eat ’em, so Sam gave me this one,
’cause we’re putty good customers, you
know, and I kalkilated that if you made up one of
them nice chicken salads o’ yourn it might please
the new boarder and the old ones too;” and chuckling
to himself he laid the lettuce on the kitchen table
and walked out into the wood-shed. In a few moments
he was vigorously at work chopping wood, whistling
to himself as he worked.

“Mr. Hawkins is an awful good-natured man, isn’t
he?” asked Betsy.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Hawkins, “he’s
too all-fired good-natured for his own good.
If I’d known him twenty-five years ago he’d
have money in the bank now. His fust wife wuz
slacker’n dish water. But I guess we’ve
talked enough for one mornin’, Betsy. You
jest git that chicken I boiled and bone it and chop
it up, and I’ll make the dressin’.”

When twelve o’clock sounded from the bell in
the church tower, dinner was on the table at Mrs.
Hawkins’s boarding house. By five minutes
past twelve there were fourteen seated at the table,
with one vacant chair. Professor Strout sat at
the head of the table. At his left was Abner
Stiles, while Robert Wood sat next to Stiles.
The vacant seat was at the Professor’s right
hand, and all eyes were turned toward it, for all had
heard of the Boston man who had arrived the night before,
but who, much to their disappointment, had not appeared
at breakfast.

At ten minutes past twelve the door leading into the
dining-room from the front entry was opened quietly,
and the young man who entered, seeing the vacant chair
near the head of the table, took possession of it.

For a moment nobody looked up, each apparently waiting
for some one else to take the initiative.

Quincy, for it was he, broke the silence, and immediately
every face at the table was turned towards him.

“How do you do, Professor?” said he.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stiles and Mr. Wood.
Ah, glad to see you, Mr. Hill,” he added, as
he espied Samuel Hill at the farther end of the table.

The Professor’s face grew crimson, then bright
red, and finally assumed a bluish tinge. Abner
sat transfixed. The others at the table had a
charming diversity of expressions on their faces, ranging
from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.”
No one at the table enjoyed the situation any more
than Samuel Hill, who was very fond of a joke and who
knew of Quincy’s intention to meet his enemy
at close quarters.

For several minutes no one spoke. Betsy flew
from one to the other waiting upon table, but a solemn
hush seemed to have fallen upon the dinner party.
Again Quincy broke the silence.

“I trust, gentlemen,” said he, “that
you will not let my presence interfere with your usual
conversation. I have no doubt Mr. Stiles can
tell us a good story, and I am equally sure that Professor
Strout has some entertaining bit of village gossip
that he would like to circulate.”

Page 176

Here Samuel Hill purposely dropped his fork upon the
floor and was obliged to get under the table to recover
it, Betsy assisting him in the search. When they
emerged from under the table their faces were red with
their exertions.

As we have seen on other occasions, the Professor
was very quick in rescuing himself from any dilemma
into which he might be thrown. He saw an opportunity
to divert attention from himself and speedily improved
it.

“I think I’ll have to walk over and see
Miss Tilly James this afternoon,” said the Professor.

At this shot at Samuel Hill and Betsy everybody laughed,
including Quincy, and thus the ice was broken.

“I’ve heard some pretty big lies told
in my life,” said Robert Wood, “but I
think Abel Coffin, yer know him, Professor, old Jonathan
Coffin’s son, the one that goes carpenterin’,
he lives over in Montrose, yer know, can beat anybody
we’ve got in this town, not exceptin’ you,
Stiles;” and he gave the latter a nudge with
his elbow that nearly knocked him out of his chair.

“Tell us the story, Robert,” said the
Professor, who had recovered his self-complacency;
“we’re dyin’ to hear it.”

“Well,” continued Robert Wood, “Abel
had been shinglin’ a house, and I told him there
wuz a place where he’d left off a shingle.
Abel laughed and, sez he, ’If I hadn’t
better eyesight than you’ve got I’d carry
a telescope ‘round with me.’ ‘Well,’
sez I, thinkin’ I’d fool him, ’let’s
see which one of us has got the best eyesight.’
I pointed up to the ridgepole of the house, which
was ’bout a hundred feet off from where we stood,
and sez I to Abel, ‘Can you see that fly walkin’
along on the ridgepole near the chimney? I ken.’
Abel put his hand up back of his ear, and sez he,
‘No, I can’t see him, but I can hear him
walkin’ ‘round.’”

As Robert concluded, a loud shout of laughter went
up from the table. Quincy had no desire to be
considered “stuck up,” so he joined in
the laugh, although he had heard the story in a different
form before.

So had the Professor, and he never allowed an old
story to be told in his presence without working in
two lines of doggerel which he had composed, and of
which he was very proud. So, turning to Robert
Wood he said patronizingly, “That was very well
told, Robert. The story is an old one, but you
worked it up very nicely; but,” continued the
Professor, “as I have often remarked on similar
occasions:

It makes no difference whether
a story’s new or old,
Everything depends on the
way it’s told.”

Turning quickly to Quincy he said, “No doubt
Mr. Sawyer can favor us with a story that we’ve
never heard before.”

Page 177

Quincy was a little taken aback, for the appeal was
unexpected, but he quickly recovered his self-possession
and said in a low but pleasant voice, “I am
afraid that my story will have to depend on the way
it is told rather than upon its novelty.”
He wondered if his hearers were acquainted with the
travels of Baron Munchausen, but decided to try the
experiment. “About a year ago,” resumed
Quincy, “I went down to Maine on some law business.
I transacted it, but had to travel some ten miles to
the county town to record my papers. I had a four-wheeled
buggy, and a strong, heavily-built horse. It
began to snow very fast after I started, but I knew
the road and drove steadily on. As I approached
the county town I noticed that the snow was deeper
than the highest building in the town, in fact, none
of the town was visible, excepting about three feet
of the spire of the tallest church in the place.”

Quincy stopped and glanced about the table. Every
eye was fastened upon him, and all, including the
Professor and Stiles particularly, were listening
intently. Quincy continued his story:

“I was well supplied with buffalo robes, so
after tying my horse firmly to the weather vane on
the spire, I made up a bed on the snow with my buffalo
robes, and slept soundly and comfortably all night.
When I woke in the morning I was still enveloped in
the robes, but found to my surprise that I was lying
upon the ground. I looked around, but there was
no sign of snow anywhere. I arose and looked about
for my horse and buggy, but they were not in sight.
Then I remembered that I had tied my horse to the
weather vane. Casting my eyes upward I saw my
horse and buggy hanging by the strap, the horse having
secured a footing on the side of the spire. Happily
I had a revolver with me, and with one shot I severed
the broad leathern strap. Naturally the horse
and buggy fell to the ground. I put my buffalo
robes back into the buggy, rode to the court house,
had my papers recorded, and then drove back ten miles
to town, none the worse for my adventure, but the
stableman charged me fifty cents for the strap that
I was obliged to leave on the church spire.”

A number of low whistles, intermixed with several
“whews!” were heard, as Quincy finished
his story.

“Wall, by thunder!” ejaculated Stiles,
“how do yer account for—­”

“I think it must have been a sudden thaw,”
remarked Quincy, with a grave face.

“One thing puzzles me,” said the Professor.

“What is that?” asked Quincy politely,
“perhaps I can explain.”

“Before you left the church,” asked the
Professor, “why didn’t you reach up and
ontie that strap?”

Another loud shout of laughter broke from the company,
and Quincy, realizing that the Professor had beaten
him fairly by putting a point on his own story, joined
heartily in the laugh at his own expense.

“That reminds me,” said Abner Stiles,
“of an adventure that I had several years ago,
down in Maine, when I wuz younger and spryer’n
I am now.”

Page 178

“How old be you?” said the Professor.

“Wall,” replied Abner, “the family
Bible makes me out to be fifty-eight, but jedgin’
from the fun I’ve had I’m as old as Methooserlar.”

This remark gave Stiles the preliminary laugh, which
he always counted upon when he told a story.

“Did yer ever meet a b’ar?” asked
he, directing his remark to Quincy.

“Yes,” said Quincy, “I’ve
stood up before one many a time.”

“Well, really,” exclaimed Abner, “how’d
yer come off?”

“Usually with considerable less money than when
I went up,” replied Quincy, seeing that Abner
was mystified.

“What?” said Abner. “I mean
a real black b’ar, one of those big, shaggy
fellers sech as you meet in the woods down in Maine.”

“Oh,” said Quincy, “I was talking
about an open bar, such as you find in bar-rooms and
hotels.”

This time the laugh was on Abner, and he was considerably
nettled by it.

“Go on, Abner, go on!” came from several
voices, and thus reassured, he continued:

“Wall, as I wuz goin’ to say, I was out
partridge shooting down in Maine several years ago,
and all I had with me was a fowlin’ piece and
a pouch of bird shot. In fact, I didn’t
have any shot left, for I’d killed ’bout
forty partridges. I had a piece of strong twine
with me, so I tied their legs together and slung ’em
over my shoulder. I was jest goin’ to start
for hum when I heerd the boughs crackin’ behind
me, and turnin’ ’round I saw—­Geewhillikins!—­a
big black b’ar not more’n ten feet from
me. I had nothin’ to shoot him with, and
knew that the only way to save my life wuz to run
for it. I jest bent over and threw the partridges
on the ground, thinkin’ as I did so that perhaps
the b’ar would stop to eat them, and I could
git away. I started to run, but caught my toe
in some underbrush and went down ker-slap. I
said all the prayers I knew in ’bout eight seconds,
then got up, and started to run ag’in. Like
Lot’s wife, I couldn’t help lookin’
back, and there wuz the b’ar flat on his back.
I went up to him kinder cautious, for I didn’t
know but he might be shammin’, them black b’ars
are mighty cute; but, no, he wuz deader’n a
door nail. I took the partridges back to town,
and then a party on us came back and toted the b’ar
home.”

Every one sat quietly for a moment, then Quincy asked
with a sober face, “What caused the bear’s
death; was it heart disease?”

“No,” said Abner, “’twas some
sort of brain trouble. Yer see, when I threw
those partridges onter the ground it brought a purty
powerful strain onto my galluses. When we cut
the b’ar up we found one of my pants buttons
right in the centre of his brain.”

Abner’s story was greeted with those signs of
approval that were so dear to his heart, and Quincy,
realizing that when you are in Rome you must do as
the Romans do, was not backward in his applause.

All eyes were now turned to the Professor.

Page 179

“I don’t think,” said he, “that
I can make up a lie to match with those that have
jist been told, but if any of you are enough interested
in the truth to want to listen to a true story, I
kin tell you one that came under my observation a
few days ago.”

All looked inquiringly at Strout, but none spoke.

“Wall,” said he, “I s’pose
I must consider as how silence means consent, and
go ahead. Wall” he continued, “you
all know, or most all on yer do, old Bill Tompkins,
that lives out on the road to Montrose. This
occurrence took place early las’ summer.
Old Bill hisself is too close-mouthed to let on about
it, but when I was over there the other day, arter
givin’ Lizzy Tompkins her music-lesson, I got
talkin’ with her mother, and one thing led to
another, and finally I got the whole story outer her.
Old Bill had a cow that they called ‘Old Jinnie.’
She was always mischeevous, but last year she’d
been wusser’n ever. She’d git out
of the barn nights, and knock down fences, and tramp
down flower gardens, and everybody said she wuz a
pesky noosance. One night old Bill and his family
wuz seated ’round the centre table in the sittin’-room.
There wuz Mary, his wife; and George, his oldest boy,
a young fellow about eighteen; Tommy, who is a ten-year-older,
and little Lizzy, who is about eight. George
wuz readin’ somethin’ out of a paper to
’em, when they heerd a-runnin’ and a-jumpin’,
and old Bill said, ’That varmint’s got
out of the barn and is rampagin’ ‘round
agin,’ The winder curt’ins wuz up, and
old Jinnie must ‘a’ seed the light, for
she run pell-mell agin the house, and drove her horns
through the winder, smashin’ four panes.
Old Bill and George managed to git her back inter the
barn and tied her up.

“As they wuz walking back to the house, old
Bill said, ’Consarn her picter, I’ll make
beef o’ her to-morrer or my name ain’t
Bill Tompkins,’ When they got back to the settin’-room,
George said, ‘How be yer goin’ ter do
it, dad?’ ‘Why, cut her throat,’
said Bill. ‘You can’t do it,’
said George, ‘the law sez yer must shoot her
fust in the temple,’ ’All right,’
said old Bill, ‘you shoot and I’ll carve,’
So next mornin’ they led old Jinnie out with
her head p’inted towards the barn. George
had loaded up the old musket, and stood ’bout
thirty feet off. George didn’t know just
edzactly where the cow’s temple wuz, but he imagined
it must be somewhere atween her eyes, so he fired
and hit her squar’ in the forehead. That
was enough for old Jinnie, she jist ducked her head,
and with a roar like the bull of Bashan she put for
George. He dropped the musket and went up the
ladder inter the haymow livelier’n he ever did
before, you kin bet. Old Jinnie struck the ladder
and knocked it galley-west. Old Jinnie then turned
’round and spied little Tommy. He put,
and she put arter him. There wasn’t nothin’
else to do, so Tommy took a high jump and landed in
the pig-sty. Old Bill is kinder deef in one ear,
and he didn’t notice much what wuz goin’

Page 180

on on that side of him. He was runnin’
the grindstone and puttin’ a good sharp edge
on his butcher knife, when he happened to look up
and seed old Jinnie comin’ head on. He
dropped the knife and started for the house, thinkin’
he’d dodge in the front door. Over went
the grindstone and old Jinnie, too, but she wuz up
on her feet ag’in quicker’n scat.
She seemed to scent the old man, for when she got
to the front door she turned in and then bolted right
into the parlor. Old Bill heerd her comin’,
and he went head fust through the open winder, and
landed in the orchard. He got up and run for
a big apple-tree that stood out near the road, and
never stopped till he’d clumb nearly to the
top. Little Lizzie gave a yell like a catamount
and ran behind the pianner, which was sot out a little
from the wall. Old Jinnie went bunt inter the
planner and made a sandwich of Lizzie, who wuz behind
it. Mis’ Tompkins heard Lizzie scream,
and come to see what the matter was. When she
see Jinnie she jist made strides for the wood-shed,
and old Jinnie sashayed arter her. Mis’
Tompkins went skitin’ through the wood-shed.
There wuz a pair of steps that led up inter the corn
barn, and Mis’ Tompkins got up there jist as
old Jinnie walked off with the steps. Then old
Jinnie took a walk outside and looked ‘round
as unconsarned as though nothin’ had happened.
Jist about this time one of them tin peddlers come
along that druv one of them red carts with pots, and
pans, and kittles, and brooms, and brushes, and mops
hung all over it. He spied old Bill up in the
tree, and sez he, ‘What be yar doin’, Farmer
Tompkins?’ ‘Pickin’ apples,’
said old Bill. He don’t waste words on nobody.
’Ain’t it rather early for apples?’
inquired the peddler. ’These are some I
forgot to pick last fall,’ replied old Bill.
‘Anythin’ in my line?’ said the
peddler. ‘Ain’t got no money,’
said Bill. ’Hain’t you got something
you want to trade?’ asked the peddler.
‘Yes,’ said Bill, ’I’ll swap
that cow over yonder; you kin have her for fifteen
dollars, an’ I’ll take it all in trade,’
‘Good milker?’ said the man. ‘Fust-class
butter,’ said old Bill. ‘What do
you want in trade?’ said the man. ‘Suit
yerself,’ said Bill, ‘chuck it down side
of the road there.’ This was soon done,
and the peddler druv up front of old Jinnie and went
to git her, so as to tie her behind his waggin.
She didn’t stop to be led. Down went her
head agin and she made for the peddler. He got
the other side of his team jist as old Jinnie druv
her horns ’tween the spokes of the forrard wheel.
Down come the pots, and pans, and kittles, in ev’ry
direction. A clotheshorse fell on the horse’s
back and off he started on a dead run, and that wuz
the end of poor Jinnie. Before she could pull
back her horns, round went the wheel and broke her
neck. The peddler pulled up his horse and went
back to see old Bill, who was climbin’ down from
the apple tree. ‘What am I goin’
to do about this?’ said the peddler. ’I
wuz countin’ on drivin’ her over to the

Page 181

next town and sellin’ her or tradin’ her
off, but I hain’t got no use for fresh beef.’
‘Wall,’ said old Bill, ’considering
circumstances we’ll call the trade off.
You kin keep your stuff and I’ll keep my beef.’
The peddler loaded up and druv off. Then old
Bill went in and pulled Lizzie out from behind the
pianner, and put up the steps so Mrs. Tompkins could
come down from the corn barn, and fished Tommy out
of the pig-sty, and threw a bucket of water over him,
and put up the ladder so George could git down from
the haymow, and they all got round poor old Jinnie
and stood as hard as they could and laughed.”
Here Professor Strout pushed back his chair and rose
to his feet. “That’s how old Bill
Tompkins got his beef.”

There was a general laugh and a pushing back of chairs,
and the whole company arose and went in various directions
to their afternoon work. Professor Strout went
into the front entry, for he always entered and left
the house by the front door. Quincy followed him,
and closing the door that led into the dining-room,
said, “Mr. Strout, I would like to see you in
my room for half an hour on important business.”

“I guess ’tain’t as important as
some business of my own I’ve got to attend to
this arternoon. I’m goin’ over to
the Centre to fix up my accounts as tax collector
with the town treasurer.”

“I think my business is fully as important as
that,” said Quincy, “it relates to your
appointment as postmaster.”

“I have both hands in it,” replied Quincy
imperturbably, “and it rests with you entirely
whether I keep hold or let go.”

“Wall,” said Strout, looking at his watch,
“I kin spare you half an hour, if it will be
as great an accommodation to yer as yer seem to think
it will.”

And he followed Quincy upstairs to the latter’s
room.

CHAPTER XXX.

A settlement.

When they entered the room Quincy motioned Strout
to a chair, which he took. He then closed the
door and, taking a cigar case from his pocket, offered
a cigar to Strout, which the latter refused. Quincy
then lighted a cigar and, throwing himself into an
armchair in a comfortable position, looked straight
at the Professor, who returned his gaze defiantly,
and said:

“Mr. Strout, there is an open account of some
two month’s standing between us, and I have
asked you to come up here to-day, because I think
it is time for a settlement”

“I don’t owe you nuthin’,”
said Strout, doggedly.

“I think you owe me better treatment than you
have given me the past two months,” remarked
Quincy, “but we’ll settle that point later.”

“I guess I’ve treated you as well as you
have me,” retorted Strout, with a sneer.

“But you began it,” said Quincy, “and
had it all your own way for two months; I waited patiently
for you to stop, but you wouldn’t, so the last
week I’ve been squaring up matters, and there
is only one point that hasn’t been settled.
From what I have heard,” continued Quincy, “I
am satisfied that Miss Mason has received full reparation
for any slanderous remarks that may have been started
or circulated by you concerning herself.”

Page 182

The Professor attentively regarded the pattern of
the carpet on the floor.

Quincy continued, “Miss Lindy Putnam has repeated
to me what she told Mr. Stiles about her visit to
Boston, and attributed the distorted and untrue form
in which it reached the inhabitants of this town to
your well-known powers of invention. Am I right?”

The Professor looked up. “I’ll have
somethin’ to say when you git through,”
he replied.

“I expect and ask no apology or reparation for
what you’ve said about me,” remarked Quincy.
“You made your boast that one of us had got to
leave town, and it wouldn’t be you. When
I heard that I determined to stay at whatever cost,
and we’ll settle this afternoon which one of
us is going to change his residence.”

“I don’t think you kin run me out o’
town,” said Strout, savagely.

“Well, I don’t know,” rejoined Quincy.
“Let us see what I have done in a week.
You insulted Mr. Pettengill and his sister by not inviting
them to the surprise party. I know it was done
to insult me rather than them, but you will remember
that we three were present, and had a very pleasant
time. I was the lawyer that advised Deacon Mason
not to loan that five hundred dollars to pay down
on the store. I told the Deacon I would loan
him five hundred dollars if the store was knocked down
to you, but I would have had that store if it had
cost me ten thousand dollars instead of three.
I was the one who put your war record in the hands
of Mr. Tobias Smith, and I was the one that prepared
the statement which showed how negligent you had been
in attending to your duties as tax collector.”

“Payin’ so much attention to other people’s
business must have made yer forget yer own,”
said Strout, shutting his teeth together with a snap.

“Oh, no,” remarked Quincy, with a laugh;
“I had plenty of time left to take a hand in
village politics, and my friend Mr. Stackpole was elected
by a very handsome vote, as you have no doubt heard.”
Strout dug his heel into the carpet, but said nothing.

“Now,” continued Quincy, “I’ve
had your appointment as postmaster held up till you
and I come to terms.”

“You’re takin’ a lot of trouble
for nothin’,” said Strout. “I
can’t be postmaster unless I have a store.
I guess I kin manage to live with my music teachin’
and organ playin’ at the church.”

“I’ve thought of that,” said Quincy.
“I don’t wish to go to extremes, but I
will if it is necessary. Before you leave this
room, Mr. Strout, you must decide whether you will
work with me or against me in the future.”

“S’posin’ I decide to work agin
yer?” asked Strout; “what then?”

“Well,” said Quincy sternly, “if
you drive me to it, I’ll bring down a couple
of good music teachers from Boston. They’ll
teach music for nothing, and I’ll pay them good
salaries. The church needs a new organ, and I’ll
make them a present of one, on condition that they
get a new organist.”

Page 183

Strout looked down reflectively for a few minutes,
then he glanced up and a queer smile passed over his
face. “S’posin’ I switch ’round,”
said he, “and say I’ll work with yer?”

“If you say it and mean it, Mr. Strout,”
replied Quincy, rising from his chair, “I’ll
cross off the old score and start fresh from to-day.
I’m no Indian, and have no vindictive feelings.
You and I have been playing against each other and
you’ve lost every trick. Now, if you say
so, we’ll play as partners. I’ll
give you a third interest in the grocery store for
a thousand dollars. The firm name shall be Strout
& Maxwell. I’ll put in another thousand
dollars to buy a couple of horses and wagons, and
we’ll take orders and deliver goods free to any
family within five miles of the store. Maxwell
will have a third, and I’ll have a third as
silent partner, and I’ll see that you get your
appointment as postmaster.”

“I guess I’ll see him out here,”
continued Abner. “What I’ve got to
say may be kinder private.”

“Come in, Abner,” cried Strout, “and
let’s hear what’s on your mind.”

“Wall,” said Abner, looking askance at
Quincy, “if yer satisfied, I am. Hiram
Maxwell’s jest came down from Mis’ Putnam’s,
and Mis’ Heppy Putnam’s dead,”—­Quincy
started on hearing this,—­“and Samanthy
Green is at her wits’ end, ’cause she
never was alone in the house with a dead pusson afore,
an’ Hiram’s goin’ to take Betsy Green
back to stay with her sister, and then he’s
goin’ to take Miss Alice Pettengill down home,
cuz Miss Pettengill’s most tired out; cuz, you
see, she’s been there since eight o’clock
this mornin’, and Mis’ Putnam didn’t
die till about one o’clock, and Samanthy says
Mis’ Putnam took on awful, so you could hear
her all over the house, and Miss Lindy Putnam, she’s
goin’ to take the next train to Bosting—­she’s
goin’, bag and baggage—­and I’ve
got to drive her over to the station, and Bob Wood,
he’s comin’ along with a waggin to carry
her trunks and bandboxes and sich, and so I’ve
come to tell yer, Professor, that I can’t take
yer over to the Centre this arternoon, no how.”

“That’s all right, Abner,” said
Strout; “considerin’ as how things has
gone, to-morrow will do just as well, but I wish you’d
drop in and tell the town treasurer that I’m
goin’ into business with Mr. Maxwell and Mr.
Sawyer here,”—­Abner’s eyes dilated,—­“under
the firm name of Strout, Maxwell, & Co.”

Page 184

“No!” interrupted Quincy, “let the
sign read, Strout & Maxwell.”

“And,” continued Mr. Strout, “Mr.
Sawyer here is goin’ to push through my app’intment
as postmaster.”

By this time Abner’s mouth was wide open.
Quincy saw it, and imagined the conflict going on
in poor Abner’s mind.

“What Mr. Strout says is correct,” remarked
Quincy, “but you have no time to lose now.
Perhaps to-night Mr. Strout will explain the matter
more fully to you.”

Abner turned, without a word, and left the room.

“Mr. Stiles is a faithful friend of yours,”
said Quincy, turning to the Professor.

“Yes,” assented Strout; “Abner’s
a very good shaft horse, but he wouldn’t be
of much vally as a lead.”

Quincy again extended his cigar case. This time
the Professor did not refuse, but took two. Holding
up one of them between his fingers, he said, “This
is the one I didn’t take when I came in.”

“I will have the partnership papers drawn up
in a few days, Mr. Strout, ready for signature, and
I will write at once to my friends in Washington,
and urge them to see the Postmaster General, and have
your appointment made as soon as possible.”

“Yer don’t let no grass grow under yer
feet, do yer?” said Strout.

Quincy was a little taken aback by this remark, for
he had not anticipated a compliment from the Professor.
He turned to him and said, “Until you forfeit
my esteem, we are friends, and it is always a pleasure
to me to help my friends.”

The men shook hands again, and the Professor left
the room.

“Not a bad man at heart,” soliloquized
Quincy. “I am glad the affair has had such
a pleasant termination. Poor Alice! What
a time she must have had with Mrs. Putnam, and so
Lindy is going to keep her word, and not stay to the
funeral. Well, knowing what I do, I don’t
blame her. Perhaps Mrs. Putnam told Alice that
Lindy was not her own child, for Alice would not accept
the fortune, I know, if she thought she was wronging
Lindy by doing so. I’ll go home,”—­he
smiled as he said this,—­“and probably
Alice will tell me all about it.”

He went down stairs, and not seeing Mrs. Hawkins in
the dining-room, walked out into the kitchen, where
she was hard at work washing the dinner dishes.

“I don’t wish for anything particularly,”
said Quincy, “but I do wish to compliment you
on your chicken salad; it was as fine as any I ever
ate at Young’s, or Parker’s, in Boston,
and,” continued he, “here are twelve dollars.”
He held out the money to her, she wiped her hands on
her apron.

“What’s that fur?” she asked.
“I’ve got six dollars of your money now.”

“That’s for Mandy,” said Quincy;
“and this,” pressing the money into her
hand, “is for four weeks’ room rent; I
am liable to come here any time during the next month.
I am going into business with Mr. Strout and Mr. Maxwell—­we’re
going to run the grocery store over here, and it will
be very handy to be so near to the store until we
get the business established. Good afternoon,
Mrs. Hawkins,” and he took her hand, which was
still wet, in his, and shook it warmly.

Page 185

He turned to leave the house by the kitchen door,
but Mrs. Hawkins interposed.

“You better go out the front way,” said
she, and she ran before him and opened the door leading
to the front entry, and then the front door. As
he passed out, she said, “I wish you success,
Mr. Sawyer, and we’ll gin you all our trade.”

“Thank you!” said Quincy. He walked
down the path, opened the front gate, and as he closed
it raised his hat to Mrs. Hawkins, who stood in the
front doorway, her thin, angular face wreathed in smiles.

“Wall,” said she, as she closed the front
door and walked back into the kitchen, “what
lies some folks tell. Now, that Professor Strout
has allus said that Mr. Sawyer was so stuck up that
he wouldn’t speak to common folks. Wall,
I think he’s a real gentleman. ’Twon’t
do for any one to run him down to me after this.”

Here she thought of her money, and, spreading out
the three bills in her hand, she opened the kitchen
door and screamed at the top of her voice, “Jonas!
Jonas!! Jonas!!!” There were no signs of
Jonas. “Where is that man? He’s
never ’round when he’s wanted.”

“What is it, Marthy?” said a voice behind
her. Turning, she saw her husband puffing away
at his brierwood pipe.

“I thought you went out to the barn,”
said she, “to help Abner hitch up?”

“Wall, I did,” he replied; “but
it didn’t take two on us long to do that.
I eat so much chicken salad that it laid kinder heavy
on my stummick, so I went out in the wood-shed to
have a smoke. But where did you git all that
money?”

“Mr. Sawyer took the front room for two weeks
and paid for it ahead, and do you know he said my
chicken salad was jist as good as Mrs. Young and Mrs.
Parker makes down to Bosting.”

“I don’t know Mrs. Young nor Mrs. Parker,”
said Jonas, “but on makin’ chicken salad
I’ll match Mrs. Hawkins agin ’em any day;”
and he went out in the wood-shed to finish his smoke.

As Quincy walked down the road towards the Pettengill
house his mind was busy with his thoughts.

“To think,” said he to himself, “that
while I was listening to those stories, to call them
by no worse name, at the dinner table, the woman I
love was witnessing the death agony and listening to
the last words of a dear friend—­the woman
who’s going to leave her a fortune. Now
that she knows that she’s an heiress, I can
speak; she never would have listened to me, knowing
that she was poor and I was rich, and I never could
have spoken to her with that secret in my mind that
Mrs. Putnam told me—­that she was going
to leave her all her money. I am so glad for Alice’s
sake, even if she does not love me. She can have
the best medical attendance now, and she will be able
to give all her time to her literary work, for which
she has a decided genius. Won’t she be delighted
when I tell her that Leopold has placed all her stories
and wants her to write a book?”

As he reached the front gate he saw Hiram driving
up the road and Alice was with him. As Hiram
stopped, Quincy stepped forward and took Alice’s
hand to assist her in alighting from the buggy.

Page 186

“Oh, Mr. Sawyer,” said she, “have
you heard that Mrs. Putnam is dead, and I’ve
had such a terrible day with her?”

Her nervous system had been wrought to its highest
tension by what she had undergone during the past
six hours. She burst into a flood of tears.
Then she tottered and would have fallen if Quincy had
not grasped her.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

She took a step forward, but he saw at a glance that
she had not sufficient strength to reach her room.

“Open the gate, Hiram. Then give the door-bell
a good sharp ring, so that Mandy will come quickly.”

He took her in his arms and went up the path, by the
astonished Mandy, and upstairs to Alice’s room,
where he laid her tenderly upon her bed. Turning
to Mandy, who had followed close at his heels, he said:

“She is not sick, only nervous and worn out.
If you need me, call me.”

He went into his own room and thanked Heaven that
he had been at hand to render her the service that
she so much needed. When he went down to supper
Mandy told him that Miss Alice was asleep, and she
guessed she’d be all right in the morning.

CHAPTER XXXI.

Aninheritance.

Quincy reached his room at Mrs. Hawkins’s boarding
house about midnight of the day of the town meeting.
About the same hour Mrs. Heppy Putnam awoke from a
troubled sleep and felt a pain, like the thrust of
a knife blade, through her left side. The room
was dark and cold, the wood fire in the open grate
having died out a couple of hours before, while a cool
wind was blowing with great force outside.

Mrs. Putnam came of the old stock which considered
it a virtue to suffer and be silent, rather than call
out and be saved. So she lay for five long hours
suffering intense pain, but declaring to herself, with
all the sturdiness of an old Roman warrior or an Indian
chief, that she would not ask for any assistance “till
it wuz time for folks to git up.”

This delay was fatal, or was destined to become so,
but she did not know it; she had had colds before,
and she had always got well. Why should’nt
she now? It is a strange vagary of old people
to consider themselves just as young as they used
to be, notwithstanding their advanced years.
To the majority of the old people, the idea of death
is not so appalling as the inability to work and the
incapacity to enjoy the customary pleasures of life.

Mrs. Putnam had always been an active, energetic woman
until she had lost her power to walk as the result
of rheumatic fever; in fact, it was always acknowledged
and said by the country folk that she was the better
half of the matrimonial firm of Silas and Hepsibeth
Putnam. Since her husband’s failure to
mount to Heaven on the day fixed for the Second Advent
she had had entire control of the family finances.
Her investments, many of which had been suggested
by her deceased son, J. Jones Putnam, had been very
profitable.

Page 187

She owned the house in which she lived, which was
the largest, best finished, and best furnished one
in the town of Eastborough. It occupied a commanding
position on the top of a hill, and from its upper windows
could be obtained a fine view of the surrounding country.
The soil at Mason’s Corner was particularly
fertile, and this fact had led to the rapid growth
of the village, which was three miles from the business
centre of Eastborough, and only a mile from the similar
part of the adjoining town of Montrose.

Back of the Putnam homestead were the best barns,
carriage houses, sheds and other outbuildings to be
found in the town, but for years they had been destitute
of horses, cattle, and other domestic animals.

Mr. Putnam had disliked dogs because they killed sheep,
and Mrs. Putnam detested cats. For years no chanticleer
had awakened echoes during the morning hours, and
no hens or chickens wandered over the neglected farm.
The trees in the large orchard had not been pruned
for a long time, and the large vegetable garden was
overrun with grass and weeds.

Back of the orchard and the vegetable garden, and
to the right and left of the homestead, were about
a hundred and sixty acres of arable pasture and wood-land,
the whole forming what could be easily made the finest
farm in the town.

The farm had been neglected simply because the income
from her investments was more than sufficient for
the support of the family. The unexpended income
had been added to the principal, until Mrs. Putnam’s
private fortune now amounted to fully fifty thousand
dollars, invested in good securities, together with
the house and farm, which were free from mortgage.

When the first streaks of morning reached the room
in which Mrs. Putnam lay upon her bed of pain, she
seized one of her crutches, and pounded vigorously
upon the floor. In a short time Samanthy Green
entered the room. She was buttoning up her dress
as she came in, and her hair was in a dishevelled
condition.

“Why, what on earth’s the matter?
You wheeze like our old pump out in the barn.
You do look real sick, to be sure.”

“Wall, if you don’t like the looks of
me,” said Mrs. Putnam sharply, “don’t
look at me.”

“But didn’t you pound?” asked Samanthy.
“Don’t you want me to go for the doctor?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Putnam, “I don’t
want no doctor. The fust thing that I want you
to do is to go and comb that frowzy pate of yourn,
and when you git that done I want yer to make me a
mustard plaster ’bout as big as that;”
and she held up her hands about a foot apart.
“Now go, and don’t stand and look at me
as though I wuz a circus waggin.”

Samanthy left the room quickly, but she had no sooner
closed the door when Mrs. Putnam called out her name
in a loud voice, and Samanthy opened the door and
looked in.

“Did you call, marm?” she asked.

“Of course I did,” said Mrs. Putnam testily.
“I guess ye wouldn’t have come back if
yer hadn’t known I did.”

Page 188

Mrs. Putnam was evidently in a bad temper, and Samanthy
had learned by years of experience to keep a close
mouth under such circumstances, so she waited for
Mrs. Putnam’s next words without replying.
Finally Mrs Putnam spoke. “I wish you’d
bring up some wood and start a fire, the room’s
kinder cold.”

When Samanthy reached the kitchen she found Lindy
there.

“Why, Miss Lindy,” said she, “what
are you up so early for?”

“I heard mother pounding and I thought she might
be sick.”

“She is awful sick,” rejoined Samanthy;
“I never saw her look so poorly afore; she seems
to be all choked up. She wants a big mustard plaster
and a fire up in her room, and I don’t know which
to do fust. Oh!” she cried, “I must
comb my hair before I go back;” and she wet a
brush and commenced brushing out her long brown hair,
which, with her rosy cheeks, formed her two principal
claims to good looks.

“Sit down,” said Lindy, “and I’ll
fix your hair up much quicker than you can do it yourself.”

“And much better, too,” added Samanthy
thankfully.

“While you’re building the fire,”
continued Lindy, “I’ll mix up the mustard
plaster.”

When Samanthy entered the chamber with the materials
for the fire, Mrs. Putnam opened her eyes and said
sharply, “Did yer bring that plaster?”

“No,” said Samanthy, “I thought
I would build the fire fust.”

“Wall,” said Mrs. Putnam, “I want
the plaster fust, and you go right down stairs and
mix it up quick.”

When Samanthy returned to the kitchen she found that
Lindy had the plaster all ready. Samanthy took
it, and started upstairs.

Lindy said to her, “Don’t tell her that
I made it.” As she said this she stepped
back into the kitchen and closed the door.

As Samanthy approached the bedside with the plaster,
Mrs. Putnam looked up and asked, “Did you make
that plaster, Samanthy?”

“Yes’m,” replied Samanthy.

“You’re lyin’, Samanthy Green, and
you know yer are. You can’t fool me.
Didn’t I hear yer talkin’ to somebody in
the kitchen?”

“Yes’m,” assented Samanthy.

“Wall,” rejoined Mrs. Putnam, “of
course I know who it wuz yer wuz talkin’ to.
Did she make the plaster?”

“Yes’m,” again assented Samanthy.

“Give it to me,” said Mrs. Putnam.

Samanthy passed it to her, and the old lady crumpled
it in her hand’s and threw it across the room.
“Now go down stairs, Samanthy Green, and make
me a mustard plaster, as I told yer to, and when I
git up outer this I’ll see if I can’t
git somebody to wait on me that kin tell the truth
‘thout my havin’ to help ’em.”

In the course of half an hour the new plaster was
made and applied, and a bright fire was shedding its
warmth into the room.

“Go down stairs and git yer breakfast,”
said Mrs. Putnam. “’Tis a trifle early,
but I hearn tell that lyin’ makes people hungry.”

Page 189

As Samanthy gave her an inquiring look, Mrs. Putnam
said, “No, I don’t want nothin’
to eat or drink nuther, but when yer git the dishes
washed I want yer ter go on an errand for me.”

It was half past six when Samanthy Green again stood
in Mrs. Putnam’s room.

“I want yer to go right down to Zeke Pettengill’s
and tell his sister Alice that I want her to come
right up here. Tell her it’s my las’
sickness, and I won’t take ‘no’ for
an answer. Be sure you put it to her jest as
I do; and Samanthy,” as Samanthy opened the door
and was leaving the room, “say, Samanthy, don’t
git anybody to do the errand for you.”

About ten minutes after Samanthy left the house, Lindy
Putnam entered the sick room. Mrs. Putnam’s
pain had been relieved somewhat by the mustard, and
this relief restored, to a great extent, her usual
vigor of mind.

“What are you up here for?” cried Mrs.
Putnam, a look of displeasure clouding her face.

“I knew Samanthy had gone out, and so I came
up to see if I could do anything for you, mother.”

“You know better,” rejoined Mrs. Putnam.
“You’ll be glad when I’m gone, for
then you kin go gallivantin’ ’round and
spend the money that my son worked hard fur.”

“I’ve used very little of it,” said
Lindy; “less than the interest; I have never
touched the principal.”

Lindy still remained standing at the foot of the bed.

“Didn’t yer hear me say I didn’t
want nuthin’?” asked Mrs. Putnam.

“I will leave the room then,” replied
Lindy quietly.

“I wish you would,” said Mrs. Putnam,
“and you’ll do me a favor if you’ll
pack yer duds as quick as yer can and git out of the
house and never come back agin.”

“I will leave the room, but I cannot leave the
house while you are alive,” remarked Lindy firmly.

“Why not?” said Mrs. Putnam. “I
want to die in peace, and I shall go much easier if
I know I haven’t got to set my eyes on your face
agin.”

“I promised Jones,” said Lindy, “that
I would never leave you while you were alive.”

“Oh, you promised Jones, did yer?” cried
Mrs. Putnam with a sneer. “Wall, Jones
will let you off on yer promise jest to ’blige
me, so yer needn’t stay any longer.”

As Lindy walked towards the door, Mrs. Putnam spoke
again.

“Did yer ever tell anybody I wasn’t yer
mother?” Lindy hesitated. “Why don’t
you out with it,” said Mrs. Putnam, “and
say no, no matter if it is a lie? Samanthy can
lie faster’n a horse can trot, and I know you
put her up to it.”

Page 190

“I have been impudent and disrespectful to you
many times, Mrs. Putnam, when you were cross to me,
but I never told you a deliberate lie in my life.
I have told one person that you were not my mother.”

“What did yer do it fur?” asked Mrs. Putnam.

“I wished to retain his good opinion,”
replied Lindy.

“Who was it?” inquired Mrs. Putnam eagerly.
Lindy did not answer. “Oh, you won’t
tell!” said Mrs. Putnam. “Wall, I
bet I can guess; it’s that feller that’s
boardin’ over to Pettingill’s.”

Mrs. Putnam saw the blood rise in Lindy’s face,
and she chuckled to herself.

“What reason have you for forming such an opinion?”
asked Lindy.

“Wall, I can kinder put two and two together,”
said Mrs. Putnam. “The day Alice Pettengill
came over here with him you two wuz down in the parlor
together, and I had to pound on the floor three times
afore I could make him hear. I knew you must
be either spoonin’ or abusin’ me.”

It was with difficulty that Lindy kept back the words
which rose to her lips, but she said nothing.

“Did yer tell him that I wuz goin’ to
leave my money to some one else?”

“It wasn’t necessary,” said Lindy,
“I judged from some things that he said that
you had told him yourself.”

“Did he tell you who it wuz?” persisted
Mrs. Putnam.

“No,” said Lindy. “I did my
best to find out, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Good for him,” cried Mrs. Putnam.
“Then ye don’t know?”

“I can put two and two together,” replied
Lindy.

“But where’d yer git the two and two?”
asked Mrs. Putnam.

“Oh, I have surmised for a long time,”
continued Lindy. “This morning I asked
Samanthy where she was going, and she said down to
Pettengill’s. Then I knew.”

“I told her not to tell,” said Mrs. Putnam,
“the lyin’ jade. If I git up off
this bed she’ll git her walkin’ ticket.”

“She’s ready to go,” said Lindy;
“she told me this morning that she’d wait
until you got a new girl.”

Mrs. Putnam closed her eyes and placed both of her
hands over her heart. Despite her fortitude the
intense pain wrung a groan from her.

Lindy rushed forward and dropped on her knees beside
the bed. “Forgive me, Mrs. Putnam,”
said she, “but you spoke such cruel words to
me that I could not help answering you in the same
way. I am so sorry. I loved your son with
all my heart, and I had no right to speak so to his
mother, no matter what she said to me.”

The paroxysm of pain had passed, and Mrs. Putnam was
her old self again. Looking at the girl who was
kneeling with her head bowed down she said, “I
guess both of us talked about as we felt; as for loving
my son, yer had no right to, and he had no right to
love you.”

“But we were brother and sister,” cried
Lindy, looking up.

Page 191

“’Twould have been all right if he’d
let it stop there,” replied Mrs. Putnam.
“Who put it into his head that there was no law
agin a man marryin’ his adopted sister?
You wuz a woman grown of eighteen, and he wuz only
a young boy of sixteen, and you made him love yer and
turn agin his mother, and then we had ter send him
away from home ter keep yer apart, and then you ran
after him, and then he died, and it broke my heart.
You wuz the cause of it, but for yer he would be livin’
now, a comfort to his poor old mother. I hated
yer then for what yer did. Ev’ry time I
look at yer I think of the happiness you stole from
me, an’ I hate yer wusser’n ever.”

“Oh, mother, mother!” sobbed Lindy.

“I’m not your mother,” screamed
Mrs. Putnam. “I s’pose you must have
had one, but you’ll never know who she wuz;
she didn’t care nuthin’ fer yer, for she
left yer in the road, and Silas was fool enough to
pick yer up and bring yer home. What yer right
name is nobody knows, and mebbe yer ain’t got
none.”

At this taunt Lindy arose to her feet and looked defiantly
at Mrs. Putnam. “You are not telling the
truth, Mrs. Putnam,” said the girl; “you
know who my parents were, but you will not tell me.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Putnam,
“git mad and show yer temper; that’s better
than sheddin’ crocodile’s tears, as yer’ve
been doin’; yer’ve been a curse to me
from the day I fust set eyes on yer. I’ve
said I hate yer, and I do, an’ I’ll never
forgive yer fer what yer’ve done to me.”

Lindy saw that words were useless. Perhaps Mrs.
Putnam might, recover, and if she did not provoke
her too far she might relent some day and tell her
what she knew about her parents; so she walked to the
door and opened it. Then she turned and said,
“Good-by, Mrs. Putnam, I truly hope that you
will recover.”

“Wall, I sha’n’t,” said Mrs.
Putnam. “I’m goin’ to die, I
want ter die. I want ter see Jones; I want ter
talk ter him; I want ter tell him how much I loved
him—­how much I’ve suffered through
yer. I’m goin’ ter tell him how I’ve
hated yer and what fer, and when I git through talkin’
to him, I’ll guarantee he’ll be my way
o’ thinkin’.”

As the old woman said this, with an almost superhuman
effort she raised herself to a sitting posture, pointed
her finger at Lindy, and gave utterances to a wild,
hysterical laugh that almost froze the blood in the
poor girl’s veins.

Lindy slammed the door behind her, rushed to her own
room, locked the door, and threw herself face downward
upon the bed. Should she ever forget those last
fearful words, that vengeful face, that taunting finger,
or that mocking laugh?

Samanthy took Alice up to Mrs. Putnam’s room
about eight o’clock. Alice knelt by the
bedside. She could not see the old lady’s
face, but she took her withered hands in hers, and
caressed them lovingly, saying, “Aunt Heppy,
I am sorry you are so sick. Have you had the doctor?”

Page 192

The old lady drew the young girl’s head down
close to her and kissed her upon the cheek. “The
docter kin do me no good. I’ve sent fer
yer becuz I know yer love me, and I wanted to know
that one person would be sorry when I wuz gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Alice, “that
I cannot see to help you, but you are not going to
die; you must have the doctor at once.”

“No,” said Mrs. Putnam, “I want
to die, I want to see my boy. I sent for you
becuz I wanted to tell you that I am goin’ to
leave this house and farm and all my money to you.”

“To me!” cried Alice, astonished.
“Why, how can you talk so, Aunt Heppy?
You have a daughter, who is your legal heir; how could
you ever think of robbing your own flesh and blood
of her inheritance?”

“She’s no flesh and blood of mine!”

“What!” cried Alice, “isn’t
Lindy your own child?”

“No,” said Mrs. Putnam savagely.
“Silas and me didn’t think we’d have
any children, so we ’dopted her jest afore we
moved down from New Hampshire and settled in this
town.”

“Do you know who her parents were?” inquired
Alice.

“Alice, what did you do with that letter I gave
you the las’ time you were here?”

“It is locked up in my writing desk at home,”
answered Alice.

“What did yer promise to do with it?”
said Mrs. Putnam.

“I promised,” replied Alice, “not
to let any one see it, and to destroy it within twenty-four
hours after your death.”

“And you will keep yer promise?” asked
the old woman.

“My word is sacred,” said Alice solemnly.

“Alice Pettengill,” cried Mrs. Putnam,
“if you break your word to me I shall be sorry
that I ever loved you; I shall repent that I made you
my heiress.” And her voice rose to a sharp,
shrill tone. “I’ll haunt you as long
as you live.”

“Aunt Heppy,” said Alice, “I’ve
given you my promise, and I’ll keep my word
whatever happens. So don’t worry any more
about it, Auntie.”

For a few moments Mrs. Putnam remained quiet; then
she spoke in clear, even tones. Not a word was
lost upon Alice. “This adopted daughter
of mine has been a curse to me ever since I knew her.
She was two years older than Jones. They grew
up together as brother and sister, but she wasn’t
satisfied with that, she fell in love with my son,
and she made him love her. She turned him agin
his mother. She found out that there wuz no law
agin a man’s marryin’ his adopted sister.
We had to send him away from home, but she followed
him. She wuz goin’ to elope with him, but
I got wind of it, and I stopped that; then Jones died
away from home and left her all his money. He
wuz so bitter agin me that he put in his will that
she was not to touch a dollar of my money, but better

Page 193

that than to have her marry him. I stopped that!”
and the old woman chuckled to herself. Then her
mood changed. “Such a marriage would ‘a’
been a sin agin God and man,” she said sternly.
“She robbed me of my son, my only boy, but I’ll
git even with her. She asked me this mornin’
if I knew who her parents wuz. I told her no,
that she was a waif picked up in a New Hampshire road,
but I lied to her. I had to.”

“But do you know who they were?” said
Alice.

“Certainly I do,” said Mrs. Putnam; “that
letter you’ve got, and that yer promised to
destroy, tells all about ’em, but she shall never
see it. Never! Never!! Never!!!”

Again she rose to a sitting posture, and again that
wild, mocking laugh rang through the house. Lindy,
still lying upon her bed in her room, heard it, shuddered,
and covered her ears with her hands to shut out the
terrible sound. Samanthy, in the kitchen, heard
it, and saying to herself, “Mrs. Putnam has
gone crazy, and only that blind girl with her,”
ran upstairs.

When Mrs. Putnam uttered that wild laugh, Alice started
from her chair with beating heart and a frightened
look upon her face. As the door opened and Samanthy
entered, Alice stepped forward. She could not
see who it was, but supposing it was Lindy, she cried
out, “Oh, Lindy, I’m so glad you’ve
come!”

Mrs. Putnam had fallen back exhausted upon her pillow;
when she heard the name Lindy she tried to rise again,
but could not. But her indomitable spirit still
survived.

“So you’ve come back, have you?”
she shrieked. “Yer couldn’t let me
die in peace. You want to hear more, do you?
Well, I’ll tell you the truth. I know who
your parents are, but I destroyed the letter; it’s
burned. That’s what I had the fire built
for this mornin’. You robbed me of my son
and I’ve got even with yer.” The old
woman pointed her finger at poor Samanthy, who stood
petrified in the doorway, and shrieked again, “Go!”
and she pointed her withered finger toward the door,
“and hunt for your parents.”

The astonished Samanthy finally plucked up courage
to close the door; she ran to Lindy’s room and
pounded upon the door until Lindy was forced to admit
her; then the frightened girl told Lindy what she had
heard, and again the worse than orphan threw herself
upon her bed and prayed that she, too, might die.

Alice did not swoon, but she sank upon the floor,
overcome by the horror of the scene. No sound
came from the bed. Was she dead? Alice groped
her way back to the chair in which she had previously
sat; she leaned over and listened. Mrs. Putnam
was breathing still—­faint, short breaths.
Alice took one of her hands in hers and prayed for
her. Then she prayed for the unhappy girl.
Then she thought of the letter and the promise she
had made. Should she keep her promises to the
dying woman, and thus be a party to the wronging of
this poor girl?

“Mrs. Putnam! Mrs. Putnam!! Aunt Heppy!!!”
she cried; “take back your fortune, I do not
want it; only release me from my oath. Oh, that
I could send for that letter and put it back into
her hands before she dies! If Mr. Sawyer were
only here; but I do not know where to find him.”

Page 194

For hours, it seemed ages to Alice, she remained by
the bedside of the dying woman, seeing nothing, but
listening intently, and hoping that she would revive,
hear her words, and release her from that horrid oath.

Suddenly, Alice started; the poor old wrinkled, wasted
hand that she held in hers, was cold—­so
cold—­she leaned over and put her ear above
the old woman’s lips. There was no sound
of breathing. She pulled down the bed-clothes
and placed her hand upon her heart. It was still.
Mrs. Putnam had gone to meet the boy she had loved
and lost.

Feeling her way along the wall, she reached the door.
Flinging it wide open, she cried, “Samantha!
Lindy!”

Samanthy came to the foot of the stairs.

“What is it, Miss Pettengill?” asked she.

“She’s dead,” said Alice, and she
sank down upon the stairway.

Samanthy ran quickly upstairs. She went first
to Miss Lindy’s room and told her that all was
over; then she came back, went into Mrs. Putnam’s
room, pulled down the curtains, went to the bed and
laid the sheet over Mrs. Putnam’s face.
She looked at the fire to see that it was safe, came
out and closed the door. Then she helped Alice
down stairs, led her into the parlor and seated her
in an easy-chair.

“I’ll bring you a nice cup of hot tea,”
said she; “I’ve just made some for dinner.”

Lindy came down stairs and went to the front door.
Hiram was there, smoking a cigar, and beating his
arms to keep warm. He had been waiting outside
for a couple of hours, and he was nearly frozen.

“Mr. Maxwell,” said Lindy; and Hiram came
up the steps. “Mrs. Putnam is dead,”
said she. “She expired just a few moments
ago, about one o’clock,” she continued,
looking at her watch. “I want you to go
right down to Mrs. Hawkins’s and bring Betsy
Green back to stay with her sister; then tell Mr.
Stiles to come up at once with the buggy and a wagon
to carry my trunks to the station. Tell Mr. Stiles
I am going to Boston on the next train. When
you come back you can take Miss Pettengill home.
She will be through her lunch by the time you get back.
After you’ve taken her home, I want you to go
and get Mrs. Pinkham, the nurse; tell her Mrs. Putnam,
is dead, and that I want her to come and lay her out.
Then drive over to Montrose and tell Mr. Tilton, the
undertaker, that I want him to make all the arrangements
for the funeral And take this for your trouble,”
said she, as she passed him a five dollar bill.

“Oh, that’s too much,” cried Hiram,
drawing back.

“Take it,” said Lindy, with a smile; “I
have plenty more—­more than I need—­more
than I know what to do with.”

As Hiram drove off he said to himself, “Lucky
girl; she’s mighty putty, too. I wonder
that city feller didn’t shine up to her.
I s’pose she’s comin’ back to the
funeral.”

As Lindy turned to go upstairs she looked into the
parlor, and saw Alice sitting with her head bowed
upon her hand. Her first impulse was to go in
and try to justify herself in the eyes of this girl,
with whom she knew that Mr. Sawyer was in love; but
no, she was but a waif, with no name, no birthright,
no heritage; that woman had cut her off from her people.
Truly, she had avenged her fancied wrongs.

Page 195

So Lindy went upstairs to her room, and remained there
until after Alice went home.

When Abner Stiles returned from Eastborough, after
having seen Lindy Putnam and all her belongings safe
on board the Boston train, he stopped at the Putnam
house to see if he could be of any further service.
Mrs. Pinkham had arrived some time before, and had
attended to those duties which she had performed for
many years for both the young and old of Mason’s
Corner, who had been called to their long home.
Mr. Tilton, the undertaker from Montrose, had come
over immediately, and had given the necessary professional
service which such sad occasions demand. Mrs.
Pinkham called to Mr. Tilton, and he came to the door.

“No; there is really nothing you can do, Mr.
Stiles, unless you will be so kind as to drive around
to Deacon Mason’s, Mr. Pettengill’s, and
Mrs. Hawkins’s, and inform them that the funeral
will be from the church, at two o’clock Friday
afternoon. I will see that you are paid for your
services.”

Undertakers are naturally polite and courteous men.
They step softly, speak low, and are even-tempered.
Their patrons do not worry them with questions, nor
antagonize their views of the fitness of things.

When Abner reached his boarding house, after making
his numerous calls, it was about five o’clock;
as he went upstairs he noticed that the door of Strout’s
room was ajar. In response to his knock, the Professor
said, “Come in.”

“Wall, how do find things?” said Abner,
as he entered the room.

“By lookin’ for ’em,” said
the Professor, with a jaunty air.

“Oh, yer know what I mean,” said Abner,
throwing himself into a chair and looking inquiringly
at Strout. “What was goin’ on this
noon ’tween you and that city feller?”

“Well, you see,” continued Strout, “Mr.
Sawyer and me have been at swords’ points the
las’ two months over some pussonal matters.
Well, he kinder wanted to fix up things, but he knew
I wouldn’t consent to let up on him ’less
he treated me square; so I gets a third interest in
the grocery store, the firm name is to be Strout &
Maxwell, and I’m to be postmaster; so, you see,
I got the best end after all, jest as I meant to from
the fust. But, see here, Stiles, Mr. Sawyer and
I have agreed to keep our business and our pussonal
matters strictly private in the futer, and you mustn’t
drop a word of what I’ve told yer to any livin’
soul.”

“I’ve carried a good many of yer secrets
’round with me,” responded Abner, “and
never dropped one of ’em, as far as I know.”

“Oh, yer all right, old man,” said the
Professor; “but, yer know, for the last two
months our game has been to keep talkin’; now
it will pay us best to keep our mouths shet.”

“Mine’s shut,” said Abner; “now,
what do I git? That job in the grocery store
that you promised me?”

“Well, you see,” said Strout, “when
I made yer that promise, I expected to own the whole
store, but now, yer see, Maxwell will want ter pick
one of the men.”

Page 196

“Yis, I see,” said Abner; “but that
leaves one fer you to pick, and I’m ready to
be picked.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Strout; “but
the work is goin’ to be very hard, liftin’
barrels and big boxes, and I’m afraid you couldn’t
stand it very long.”

A disappointed look came over Abner’s face;
he mused for a moment, then he broke out, “Yes,
I see; I’m all right for light work, sech as
tellin’ lies ‘bout people and spyin’
out their actions, and makin’ believe I’ve
seen things that I never heard of, and hearin’
things that were never said; but when it comes to
good, clean, honest work, like liftin’ barrels
and rollin’ hogshead’s, the other feller
gets the job. All right, Professor!” said
he, getting up and walking towards the door; “when
you want anythin’ in my line, let me know.”
And he went out and slammed the door behind him.

As he went upstairs to his room, he said to himself,
“I have sorter got the opinion that the Professor
took what wuz given him, instid of gittin’ what
he asked fer. I kinder guess that it’ll
pay me to be much more partickler about number one
in the futer than I’ve been.”

CHAPTER XXXII.

AuntElla.

Deacon Mason had an early caller Wednesday morning.
He was out in the barn polishing up his silver-plated
harness, for he was going to the funeral on Friday
with his family. Hiram had given him notice that
he would have to go up to the store at once.
The Deacon didn’t have anybody in mind to take
Hiram’s place, and thought he might as well get
used to doing his own work until he came across the
right party.

“I don’t know,” said Abner; “I
heerd that Hiram was goin’ to leave yer, so
I came ’round to see if yer wanted ter hire a
man.”

“Do yer know of one?” asked the Deacon
with a smile.

“That’s all right, Deacon,” said
Abner. “I don’t blame yer fer havin’
yer little joke. I’ve worked so long fer
the Professor that I expect to have it flung up at
me. But I’ve renounced the Evil One and
all his wicked ways, and I want to be taken into a
good Christian home, and eventooally jine the church.”

“While the lamp holds
out to burn,
The vilest sinner may
return,”

quoted the Deacon, as he hung up one piece of harness
and took down another.

“That’s true as Gospel,” said Abner;
“and I hope you’ll see it’s your
duty, as I’ve heerd Parson Howe say, to save
the brand from the burnin’.”

“Well, you go in and talk to Mrs. Mason,”
said the Deacon; “she’s the one that wants
the work done, and if she’s satisfied to give
yer a trial, it’s all the same to me.”

“Thank yer, Deacon,” answered Abner.
“There’s one p’int in my favor,
Deacon; I hain’t got no girl, and I sha’n’t
take any of your time to go courtin’;”
and with this sly dig at Hiram, he went in to settle
his fate with the Deacon’s wife.

Page 197

On that same Wednesday morning all of the Pettengill
family were together at the breakfast table.
The conversation naturally turned to Mrs. Putnam’s
death, and Ezekiel remarked “that she was a nice
old lady, and that she and his mother were great friends.
It beats all,” continued he, “the way
Lindy has acted. Abner Stiles told me that she
took the half-past three train to Boston, and he said
Bob Wood took over an express wagon full of trunks.
Samanthy Green told Stiles that Lindy hadn’t
left a single thing in the house that belonged to her,
and it don’t look as though she was comin’
back to the funeral.”

During this recital, Alice listened intently.
She flushed then grew pale, and finally burst into
tears. All present, of course, attributed her
agitation to her well known love for Mrs. Putnam.

“Shall I go upstairs with you, Sis?” asked
Ezekiel.

“No,” said Alice, drying her eyes, “I’m
going into the parlor. I told Mandy to build
a fire there, and I want you and Uncle Ike and Mr.
Sawyer to come with me.”

When they were gathered in the parlor, Alice began
her story. Every word said by the dead woman
had burned itself deep into her memory, and from the
time she entered the sick room until she fell exhausted
upon the stairway, after calling loudly for Samanthy
and Lindy, not a word was missing from the thrilling
narrative. Her audience, including even Quincy,
listened intently to the dramatically told story, and
they could almost see the frenzied face, the pointed
finger, and hear the wild, mocking laugh.

For a few moments nothing was said. Finally,
Ezekiel broke the silence.

“Well, I guess,” said he, “that
will of her’n will stand, all right. Lindy’s
got enough of her own; she won’t be likely to
interfere; and I never he’rd of their havin’
any other relatives.”

Then Uncle Ike spoke up. “I shall go to
the funeral, of course, next Friday, and I shall expect
to hear the Rev. Mr. Howe stand up in his pulpit and
tell us what a good Christian woman Hepsy was; she
was so kind and so benevolent, and so regardful of
the feelings of others, and it wouldn’t make
a bit of difference if you went and told him what
you’ve told us, Alice; he’d say just the
same thing.”

“Oh, hush! Uncle Ike,” cried Alice,
pleadingly; “she was a good woman, excepting
on that one point, and you must own that she had some
provocation. Let me ask you a question, Uncle
Ike. How far should promises made to the dead
be kept?”

“Just so far,” replied Uncle Ike, “as
they do not interfere with the just rights of the
living. Where is that letter that she wanted you
to destroy?” he asked.

“Here it is,” said Alice, and she took
it from the bosom of her dress.

“Well,” said Uncle Ike, “if I were
in your place I’d open that letter, read it,
and if it was likely to be of any value to Miss Putnam
in finding her parents or relatives, I’d hunt
her up and give it to her. Mrs. Putnam owned
up that she lied about it, and the whole thing, any
way, may be a bluff. Perhaps it’s only blank
paper, after all.”

Page 198

“No,” said Alice, “I could never
open it or read it. I laid awake all night, thinking
about my promise, and I finally made up my mind that
I would go to see Lindy this morning, and let her
read it; but now she has gone away, and we do not
know where to find her. What shall I do with
this dreadful thing?” she cried, as she held
the letter up in her hand.

Quincy felt called upon to speak.

“Miss Pettengill,” said he, “I think
I could find Miss Putnam for you.” A slight
flush arose to Alice’s cheek which did not escape
Quincy’s notice. He continued, “When
I went to Boston, last Saturday, I happened to meet
her on the train. She told me then something of
her story, and said she was going to leave the house
forever, as soon as Mrs. Putnam died. She also
told me that if I ever learned anything about her parents
I could reach her by advertising in the Personal Column
of the New York ‘Herald,’ addressing ‘Linda,’
and signing it ‘Eastborough.’”

“And will you do this at once for me?”
cried Alice, eagerly. “I am so thankful;
you have taken such a load from my mind, Mr. Sawyer.
How fortunate it was that you met her as you did?

“I think Mr. Sawyer is about as lucky as they
make ’em,” remarked! Uncle Ike, with
a laugh.

“Kind fortune owes me one or two favors yet
before I shall be entirely satisfied,” said
Quincy. “Now, Miss Pettengill, will you
allow me to make a suggestion that will free you from
the further care of this document?”

“I don’t care what is done with it,”
said Alice; “but no one but Lindy must read
it.”

“That is any idea exactly,” assented Quincy.
“I will go to Boston on the noon train and send
that advertisement to the New York ‘Herald,’
With your permission, I will turn that document over
to a legal friend of mine. He will put it in
an envelope and seal it up. He will write on the
outside, ’To be delivered only to Miss Putnam,
on the written order of Miss Alice Pettengill,’
and it will repose quietly in his big safe until Miss
Putnam is found.”

“That will do splendidly!” said Alice,
with animation. “What magicians you lawyers
are! You discover a way out of every difficulty.”

“Wait until you get one of those lawyers working
against you,” remarked Uncle Ike, “then
you’ll change your mind. Well, I s’pose
now this matter’s settled, I can go upstairs
and have my morning smoke.”

“And I’ve got to go to the store,”
said Ezekiel to Uncle Ike, “and get some corn,
or those chickens of your’n will swaller the
hen coop.” And both men left the room together.

“If you can give me a little of your time, Miss
Pettengill,” said Quincy, “I have some
news for you that I think will please you very much.”

“About my stories?” cried Alice.

Page 199

“Yes,” replied Quincy. “Just
before I went to Boston last Saturday I got a letter
from Leopold, asking me to call on him as soon as convenient.
I found him at home Sunday evening, and this is what
he said. The New York house has accepted your
series of eight detective stories, and will pay you
twenty-five dollars for each of them. The house
will send you a check from time to time, as they publish
them. Leopold has accepted your long story for
the magazine published by the house for which he is
reader. He says Jameson will get your other story
into one of the Sunday papers, and he will have his
dramatic version ready for production next fall.
He can’t tell how much you will make out of these
just yet; the magazine pays by the page and the newspaper
by the column, and, of course, Jameson will give you
part of his royalty, if he gets the play on.”

“Why, Mr. Sawyer, you are showering wealth upon
me like another Count of Monte Cristo.”

“But you have not heard all,” continued
Quincy. “Leopold has placed your two songs
with a music publishing house, and you will get a royalty
on them in time. He says they don’t pay
any royalty on the first three hundred copies, and
perhaps they won’t sell; the public taste on
sheet music is very fickle. Then, that composer,
I can never remember his name, is at work on your
poem, ‘The Lord of the Sea.’ He told
Leopold he was going to make it his opus vitae,
the work of his life, you know, and he is talking
it up to the director of the Handel and Haydn Society.”

“How true it is,” said Alice, “that
gladness quickly follows sadness! I was so unhappy
this morning”, but now the world never looked
so bright to me. You have brushed away all my
sorrows, Mr. Sawyer, and I am really very happy to
hear the good news that you have told me.”

“There is one sorrow that I have not yet relieved
you of,” continued Quincy.

“And that?” asked Alice, brushing back
the wavy golden hair from her forehead, and looking
up at him with her bright blue eyes, which bore no
outward sign of the dark cloud that dimmed their vision,—­“and
that is?”—­she repeated.

“That letter,” taking the hand that held
it in both of his own. “If I am to get
that noon train I have no time to lose.”

“Before you take it,” said Alice, “you
must promise me that it shall not be opened, and no
eye but Lindy’s must ever rest upon it.”

“You have my word,” he replied.

“Then take it,” said she; and she released
her hold upon it.

He took the letter with one hand, his other hand still
retaining its grasp upon hers.

“Gallant knights,” said Alice, as she
withdrew her hand from his, “do not bargain
for their reward until they have fulfilled their trust.”

“I accept the reproof,” said Quincy gravely.

Page 200

“It was not so intended, Sir Knight,”
responded Alice brightly; “so I will make amends
by answering your query. If you return successful,
tell me what you would prize the most, and even if
it be half my kingdom, it shall be yours.”

“I am content, but modern locomotives do not
wait even for gallant knights of old. So adieu.”

He quitted the room, and Alice stood where he had
left her until she heard the rumble of wheels as he
drove off for the station; then she found her way
to her chair before the fire, and her mind wove the
outline of a romantic story, in which there was a gallant
knight and a lovely maiden. But in her story
the prize that the knight asked when he returned successful
from his quest was the heart and hand of the lovely
maiden.

Jim Cobb went over to Eastborough Centre, so as to
drive the team back. Before going to the station,
Quincy stepped into the post office and found a letter
addressed to him in a peculiar, but familiar, handwriting.

As soon as the train started Quincy opened his letter.
It was short and to the point.

“My dearQuincy:—­Maude
gave me your address. What are you doing in a
miserable, little country town in the winter?
They are bad enough in the summer, but in March!—­’Bah!
Come and see me at once, you naughty boy!
AuntElla.”

“Dated yesterday,” said Quincy; “how
fortunate. I will go up to Mt. Vernon Street
to-morrow noon and take lunch with her.”

When Quincy reached Boston he went directly to his
father’s office. The Hon. Mr. Sawyer was
not present, but his partners, Mr. Franklin Crowninshield
and Mr. Atherton Lawrence, were busily engaged.
Quincy took a seat at the desk which, he had occupied
before going to Eastborough, and wrote out his advertisement
for the New York “Herald.” It read
as follows: “Linda. Important paper
discovered; communicate at once with Q.A.S., Eastborough.”

He enclosed a check to cover a fortnight’s insertion;
then walked down State Street to the post office to
mail his letter. When he returned, Mr. Lawrence
informed him that his father was in his private office.
His father greeted him pleasantly, but not effusively;
in fact, any marked exhibition of approval or disapproval
was foreign to the Sawyer character, while the Quincys
were equally notable for their reticence and imperturbability.

“When shall we have the pleasure of your continued
presence at home?” asked the father.

“To-night,” replied Quincy, with a smile,
“I shall be with you at dinner, stay all night,
and take breakfast with you.”

“I trust your long visit will not oblige you
to neglect other more important matters,” said
the father.

“Oh, no!” answered Quincy. “I
have looked out for that.”

Page 201

“And when do you think your health will allow
you to resume your position in the office?”
inquired the Hon. Nathaniel.

“That is very uncertain,” replied Quincy.

“If you do not intend to come back at all,”
continued the father, “that would simplify matters.
I could then make room for a Harvard graduate to study
with us.”

Quincy reflected. He had been taught by his father
not to give a positive answer to any question on the
spur of the moment, if more time could be taken, as
well as not, for consideration. So, after a few
moments of thought, Quincy said, “I will write
you in the course of ten days or a fortnight, and
give you a positive answer.”

“That will be entirely satisfactory,”
answered his father. “As you are going
out, will you kindly tell Mr. Crowninshield that I
wish to consult with him?”

Quincy knew that the interview had expired by limitation.
He went home, but found that his mother and sisters
were out riding.

“They will return in time for dinner,”
said Delia, the parlor maid.

Quincy went into the parlor and opened the grand piano.
He sat down before it, touched a few of the keys casually,
then sang, with great expression, the song by J.R.
Thomas entitled “Pleasant Memories.”
He next wandered into the library, and took down and
glanced at several books that he had devoured with
avidity when a boy of sixteen. Then he went upstairs
to his own room, which he had occupied since he was
eight years old. It looked familiar, everything
was in its accustomed place; still, the room did not
look homelike. Strange as it may seem, Quincy
had been happier in the large west chamber, with its
old-fashioned bureau and carpet and bed, than he had
ever been in this handsomely furnished apartment in
the Beacon Street mansion. There was no wide
fireplace here, with ruddy embers, into whose burning
face he could look and weave fanciful dreams of the
fortune and happiness to be his in the future.

He spent a pleasant evening with the family.
His father was present, but passed the time in reading
the newspapers and a legal brief that he wished to
more closely examine. His mother was engrossed
in a new novel, but no approving smile or sympathetic
tear demonstrated any particular interest in the fates
of the struggling hero or suffering heroine.

Florence sat at the piano, and, in response to Quincy’s
request that she would give him some music, played
over some chromatic scales and arpeggios. He
declared that they reminded him of grand opera, which
remark sent Maude into a fit of satirical laughter,
and Florence up to her room in a pout.

Then Maude fell to asking Quincy questions about himself,
to which he returned evasive and untruthful answers,
until she was, as she said, completely disgusted.
Then she dropped her head upon his shoulder, and with
the arms of the brother whom she dearly loved clasped
around her, she went to sleep. He looked at the
sweet girlish face and thought, not of her, but of
Alice.

Page 202

Next morning he was up early, for he knew that a busy
day was before him. The last thing before retiring,
and the first thing upon getting up, he examined his
inside vest pocket, to see if that precious letter,
that priceless trust that he had given his knightly
word to deliver, was safe.

He breakfasted early, and eight o’clock found
him in Bowdoin Square, at the corner of Green and
Chardon Streets. His first visit was to a safe
manufactory, a few doors from the corner, where he
purchased one for the firm of Strout & Maxwell.

After traversing both sides of Friend Street, he finally
settled upon two horses, stout country roadsters,
and left an order for their shipment to Eastborough
Centre, when they were notified that the wagons were
ready. He bought the wagons in Sudbury Street.
They had red bodies and yellow wheels, and the words,
“Strout & Maxwell, Mason’s Corner, Mass.,”
were to be placed on them in gold letters.

These tasks completed, Quincy walked up Tremont Row
by Scollay’s Building. Crossing Pemberton
Square, he continued up Tremont Street until he came
to the building in which was the law office of Curtis
Carter, one of his law school chums.

“Hello, Curt!” said he, as he entered
the somewhat dingy office.

“Well, ’pon honor, Quincy,” cried
Curtis, “the sight of you is good for sore eyes,
and I’ve got such a beastly cold that I can’t
see with one eye and can’t read with the other.”

“Well,” said Quincy, “I came in
here intending to consult you professionally, but
I don’t think a blind lawyer will answer my
purpose.”

“Oh, I shall be all right in a few minutes,”
replied Curtis. “I dropped into Young’s
as I came up and took an eye-opener. What’s
the matter, old fellow, breach of promise?”

Quincy took a seat near Curtis’s desk.

“No,” said he, “it’s a case
of animosity carried beyond the grave.”

“Oh! I see,” said Curtis, “party
cut off with a shilling, going to try and break the
will?”

“Have a cigar?” asked Quincy. “While
you are lighting it and getting it under way I may
slide in and get a chance to state my business.”

“Oh! you want to do the talking?” said
Curtis good humoredly. “Well, go ahead,
old man;” and he leaned back and smoked complacently.

Quincy then related as much as he thought necessary
of the story of the sealed letter, and as he concluded
he took the package from his pocket and placed it
on the corner of the lawyer’s desk.

“You are doing just right,” said Curtis;
“the probate judges nowadays are looking more
carefully at wills, especially when their provisions
indicate that the signer was more red Indian than white
Christian. I understand you perfectly,”
he continued; “what you wish me to do is to
put this letter in an envelope, seal it securely, and
endorse upon it these words, ’To be delivered
only to Miss Lindy Putnam upon the written order of
Miss Alice Pettengill.’”

Page 203

“That’s it exactly,” said Quincy;
“only I wish a receipt from you for the document.”

“Certainly,” replied Curtis. As he
raised the lid of his old-fashioned desk the letter
fell to the floor. The envelope had received rough
treatment in its progress from hand to hand, and it
was not strange that when it struck the floor one
corner was split open by the fall.

As Quincy stooped to pick it up, he noticed that something
that resembled a small piece of white cloth dropped
from the broken corner of the envelope. When
he picked it up to replace it, he saw that it was a
small piece of white cotton cloth, and his quick eye
caught the name “Linda Fernborough” stamped
thereon with indelible ink. He said nothing,
but replacing the piece of cloth passed the package
to Curtis, who enclosed, sealed, and endorsed it,
and gave a receipt therefor to Quincy.

“I will put this in my big steel vault,”
said he, as he went into another room.

Quincy knew that Curtis would accept no fee for such
a slight service, so placing a five dollar greenback
under a paperweight, he quietly left the office and
was out of sight long before Curtis, with the bill
in his hand, ran down stairs, bareheaded, and looked
up and down the street in search of him.

Five minutes later Quincy reached his aunt’s
house. A “Buttons,” dressed in blue
livery, opened the door, and Quincy was ushered into
the long parlor, which ran the full depth of the house,
some sixty feet, in which he had passed many pleasant
evenings. He sent up his card, and in a few moments
Buttons returned and delivered the speech which Mrs.
Chessman had taught him and which he had learned by
heart: “Mrs. Chessman desires that you
will come up at once.”

Quincy bounded upstairs, to the evident astonishment
of Buttons, and made his way to the front chamber,
which he knew was his aunt’s room. She
loved the sunlight, and it was a constant visitor in
that room, summer and winter. His aunt did not
greet him with a “how do you do?” and
a hand-shake. Instead of such a formal reception,
she gave him a hearty hug and kissed him three times,
once on the forehead, then on the cheek, and finally
on the lips, in which latter osculation Quincy took
part.

His aunt led him to an easy-chair, then threw herself
upon a lounge opposite to him. She eyed him attentively
for a moment.

“Quincy,” said she, “you are better
looking than ever; you’re almost as good looking
as Robert was, and he was the handsomest man I ever
saw. How many different country girls have you
kissed since you saw me last?”

“I kept the count,” said Quincy, “till
I went to a surprise party a week ago Monday, and
then I lost it.”

“Of all the kisses that you have had, whose
do you prize the most?”

“Those from my beloved Aunt Ella,” replied
Quincy.

Aunt Ella smiled and said, “You know how to
keep on the right side of an old woman who has got
money.”

Page 204

“I didn’t think of that until you called
my attention to it,” said Quincy gravely.

“And I didn’t believe it when I said it,”
added Aunt Ella. A few moments later she rang
and ordered a light lunch. When this was over
she went to an old secretary with brass handles, opened
a drawer, and took out a cigar box.

“I have a few of Robert’s cigars left,”
she said.

Quincy took one and resumed his seat in the easy-chair.

Aunt Ella opened another drawer in the secretary and
took out a pouch of tobacco, a package of rice paper
and a box of wax tapers. She put these articles
on a small diamond-shaped table and placed the table
between Quincy and herself. She handed Quincy
the match-box, then deftly rolling a cigarette, she
lighted it, leaned back upon the lounge and blew rings
of smoke into the air, which she watched until they
broke.

“Do you think it’s horribly unbecoming
for me to smoke?” she asked, looking at Quincy.

“Do you wish me to express my real thoughts?”
replied Quincy, “or flatter you because you
have money?”

“Well, Aunt Ella,” said he, “you
are the only woman whom I ever saw smoke who, in my
opinion, knew how to do it gracefully.”

“I think you are sincere,” she rejoined,
“and I beg pardon for wounding your feelings
as I did before. Give me your hand on it.”

They shook hands as two men would have done after
settling differences.

Then she said, “Now draw your chair up closer,
Quincy, and tell me what you’ve been doing,
and what other people have been doing to you since
the day before Christmas, the last time I set eyes
on you until to-day. You know I am your mother
confessor.”

Quincy complied, and in his quiet, concise way gave
her a full account of his doings in Eastborough, omitting
nothing, concealing nothing. If anything, he
gave fuller details of his acquaintance with Huldy,
Lindy, and Alice than he did of the other portions
of his story. He could not forbear to give at
full length the account of his final settlement with
the Professor.

Aunt Ella laughed heartily at some parts of the recital,
and looked sorrowful and sympathetic when she listened
to other portions. She rolled and smoked half
a dozen cigarettes during its continuance, and when
she saw that Quincy had finished his cigar she placed
the remainder of the box before him.

When he closed she said, “Quincy, you’re
a brick. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much
for years. I do so love anything that isn’t
commonplace, and your experience is both novel and
interesting. What a dear old man Deacon Mason
is, and Ezekiel Pettengill is a fine young fellow,
honest and square. That Hiram and Mandy must
be a team. Are they going to get married?”

“I think so,” said Quincy. “He
stammers, you know, and I think he is afraid he will
break down when he tries to propose.”

Page 205

Aunt Ella laughed heartily; then she said, “What
a constitutional liar that Stiles must be, and as
for the Professor, I would like to have a set-to with
him myself.”

As she said this she doubled up her fists.

“Oh, he wouldn’t meet you that way,”
said Quincy. “He only fights with a woman’s
weapon, his tongue;” and he told her of his little
boxing match with Robert Wood.

Aunt Ella continued: “I can imagine what
a pretty, sweet, little country girl Huldy Mason is.
My heart aches for Lindy, her martyrdom has been out
of all proportion to her contemplated wrongdoing, if
wrongdoing it really was. Had I been in her place
I would have married Jones and left my clothes behind;
and then,” said Aunt Ella, “how my heart
goes out to that dear, sweet girl that you call Alice!
Do you love her, Quincy?”

“Devotedly,” answered Quincy, “I
never really loved a woman before.”

“Then marry her,” cried Aunt Ella decidedly.

“Everybody at home but Maude will object,”
said Quincy.

“Maude’s the best one in the family, next
to yourself,” snapped Aunt Ella.

“They will bring up Uncle Jim,” continued
Quincy.

“Nonsense!” replied Aunt Ella. “Uncle
Jim was a fool; any man is a fool who thinks he can
win the battle of life by making a sot of himself.
Bring this girl to me, Quincy. She must be a genius,
if she can write as you say she can. Let me care
for her and love her and make life pleasant and beautiful
for her until you get ready to do it yourself.”

“I will, some day, Aunt Ella. You are the
best friend I have in the world, and when I have the
right to bring Alice to you, I will lose no time in
doing so. Thank you for your kind words about
her. I shall never forget them, and she shall
hear them some day. But I must go now.”

They both arose, “Promise that you will come
and see me every time you are in Boston, Quincy; if
you don’t, I shall come down to Eastborough to
see you.”

She gave him another kiss at parting.

As he left the house he deliberated for a moment as
to where he should go next. It was half-past
four. He decided to go to Leopold’s lodgings
in Chestnut Street. He found him at home, but
for a wonder he was not working.

“This is an off day with me,” he explained;
“this is our haying season, and I’ve been
working nights, days, and Sundays for a fortnight.”

“I came to express Miss Pettengill’s obligations
and thanks for your kind and very successful efforts
in her behalf.”

“Oh! that’s all right,” said Leopold.
“By the way, have you told her she ought to
write a book?”

“Not yet,” said Quincy; “but I’m
going to soon. She has just lost a dear friend;
but I won’t forget it.”

“Don’t!” repeated Leopold.
“She is a diamond that ought to be dug up, cut,
and set in eighteen carat gold. Excuse my apparently
brutal language, but you get my meaning.”

“Can’t do it,” replied Leopold;
“my stomach is loafing, too. ’Twouldn’t
be fair to make it work and do nothing myself.
Just as much obliged. Some other day. Don’t
forget the book,” he cried, as Quincy left the
room.

Quincy took his dinner at Parker’s, caught the
five minutes past six express, and reached Eastborough
Centre at half-past seven. Abbott Smith drove
him home to the Pettengill house.

The next day was Friday. Everybody at Mason’s
Corner, with quite a number from Eastborough and Montrose,
came to Mrs. Putnam’s funeral. The little
Square in front of the church, as well as the shed,
was filled with teams. While waiting for the
arrival of the body, quite a number of the male residents
of Mason’s Corner were gathered upon the steps
of the church.

Strout spied Abner Stiles and approached him.
“Bob Wood has jest told me,” said the
Professor, “that he has decided not to leave
his present place, so I’ve concluded on second
thoughts to give yer that job at the grocery store.”

Abner’s eyes twinkled.

“I’ve had my second thoughts, too,”
said he, “I’ve hired out to Deacon Mason
for life, and if I jine the church he says I can work
for him in the next world. So I kinder guess
I shall have to decline yer kind invitation to lift
boxes and roll barrels.”

When the services were over every person in the church
passed up the centre aisle to take a last view.
Her husband had been buried in the Montrose cemetery,
and she had told Mr. Tilton that she was to be laid
by his side. The Eastborough cemetery was in West
Eastborough, and for that reason many of the late
residents of Mason’s Corner slept their last
sleep at Montrose.

As they stood by the coffin, Alice said, “How
does she look?”

“Very pleasant,” replied Quincy; “there
is a sweet smile upon her face.”

“I am so glad,” said Alice. She pressed
his arm a little tighter, and looking up to him, she
said, “Perhaps she has met her boy, and that
smile is but the earthly reflection of the heavenly
one that rests upon her face in her home above.”

“I hope so,” replied Quincy; and they
walked slowly out of church and took their places
on the rear seat of the Pettengill carryall, Ezekiel
and Uncle Ike sitting in front.

Mandy Skinner and Mrs. Crowley had not gone to the
funeral The latter was busy skimming cream from a
dozen large milk pans, while Mandy sat before the
kitchen stove, with Swiss by her side. She was
thinking of Hiram, and wondering if he really intended
to ask her to marry him.

“I don’t think he’s been foolin’
me, but now he’s goin’ into business I
should think it was about time for him to speak up
or quit.”

Page 207

Swiss suddenly arose, sniffed and went to the kitchen
door. The door was opened softly and some one
entered the room. Mandy did not turn her head.
Perhaps she guessed who it was. Then some one
placed a chair close to Mandy and took a seat beside
her.

“Say, M-m-m-m-m-a-andy,” said Hiram, “will
you please read this to me? It’s an important
document, and I want to be sure I’ve got it jest
right.” As he said this he passed Mandy
a folded paper.

She opened it and the following words met her eye:
“This is to certify that I, Hiram Maxwell, of
Mason’s Corner, in the town of Eastborough,
county of Normouth, and Commonwealth of Massachusetts,
hereby declare my intention to ask Miss Amanda Skinner
of the village, town, county, and state aforesaid,
to become my lawful wedded wife.”

“Oh, you big silly!” cried Mandy, dropping
the paper, for she didn’t think it necessary
to read any further.

“Is it all right?” cried Hiram, “it
cost a quarter to git it drawn up. Then I swore
to it before old Squire Rundlett over to Montrose,
and it ought ter hold water. You’d better
keep it, Mandy, then I can’t fling it up at
yer that I never axed yer to marry me.”

“Who told you that?” asked the girl indignantly.

“Ma Hawkins. Well, she didn’t exactly
say it to me, but she spoke it out so loud to Betsy
Green that I heered it clear out in the wood-shed and
I’ll tell yer what, Mandy, it kinder made me
mad.”

“Well, it’s all right now,” said
Mandy soothingly.

“Is it?” asked Hiram, his face beaming
with delight.

The next instant there was a succession of peculiar
sounds heard in the room. As Swiss came back
from the kitchen door but one chair was needed for
the happy couple, and an onlooker would have thought
that chair was occupied by one person with a very
large head, having light curly hair on one side and
straight dark hair on the other, no face being visible.

It was upon this picture that Mrs. Crowley looked
as she opened the door leading into the kitchen and
started to come into the room with a large pan full
of cream.

Astonished, she stepped backward, forgetting the two
steps that she had just ascended. Flat upon her
back she fell, the pan of cream drenching her from
head to foot.

“It’s drownded I am! It’s drownded
I am!” she cried at the top of her voice.

“What’s the matter? How did it happen?”
said Mandy, as she rushed into the room, followed
by Swiss.

“Shure I was thinkin’ of the day when
Pat Crowley and I both sat in the same chair, forty
years ago,” said Mrs. Crowley, rising to her
feet and wiping the cream from her eyes, and nose,
and ears.

During this time Swiss was busily engaged having a
rich feast upon the cream left in the pan. Hiram
appeared at the kitchen door to learn the cause of
Mandy’s absence.

Page 208

Raising her hands high in the air, Mrs. Crowley said,
“Bless you, my darlints; may yer live long and
may all the saints pour blessin’s on yer hids.”

And with this invocation the poor old woman hobbled
off to her room in the ell and was not seen again
until the next morning.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

TheWeddin’s.

The next day was Saturday. While the Pettengill
family was at breakfast, Squire Rundlett arrived.
He had driven over from Montrose with the partnership
papers for Strout, Hiram, and Quincy to sign and also
the will of the late Mrs. Hepsibeth Putnam.

As he came into the kitchen he espied Mandy, and a
broad smile spread over his face as he said, “Good
morning, Miss Skinner, was that paper all right?”
Mandy flushed scarlet but said nothing. “Honestly,
Miss Skinner,” said the Squire, “I think
it was a very sensible act on Hiram’s part.
If men were obliged to put their proposals in writing
there wouldn’t be any more breach of promise
cases.”

“I think he was a big goose,” finally
ejaculated Mandy, laughing in spite of herself.

“At any rate,” continued the Squire, “he
knew how to pick out a smart, pretty little woman
for a wife;” and he raised his hat politely and
passed into the dining-room.

Here he was asked to have some breakfast. He
accepted a cup of coffee, and, while drinking it,
informed Quincy and Alice of the twofold purpose of
his visit.

Quincy led Alice into the parlor, the Squire accompanying
them. Quincy then retired, saying he would join
the Squire in a short time and ride up to the store
with him.

When they were alone, the Squire informed Alice that
by the terms of Mrs. Putnam’s last will she
had been left sole heiress of all the real and personal
property of the deceased. The dwelling house and
farm were worth fully ten thousand dollars, while
the bonds, stocks, and other securities, of which
he had had charge for many years, were worth at least
forty thousand more. For several years Mrs. Putnam’s
income had been about twenty-five hundred dollars
a year.

“It was very kind of her to leave it to me,”
said Alice; “I have never done anything to deserve
it and I would not take it were it not that I understand
there are no near relatives, and that Miss Lindy Putnam
was amply provided for by her brother.”

There was a knock upon the door, and Quincy looked
in.

“Come in, Mr. Sawyer,” said the Squire.
“I have an important bit of news for you that
concerns this young lady.”

Quincy did as requested and stood expectantly.

The Squire went on: “Mrs. Putnam’s
old will, made some six years ago, gave all the property
to Miss Pettengill, but provided that its provisions
should be kept secret for ninety days. In that
will I was named as sole executor.”

“Why did she change it?” asked Alice earnestly.

Page 209

“I don’t know,” replied the Squire.
“About three weeks ago she sent for me and cut
out the ninety-day restriction and named our young
friend here as co-executor with myself.”

Alice remained silent, while a look of astonishment
crept into Quincy’s face.

“I do not quite comprehend her reason for making
this change,” remarked Quincy.

“Mrs. Putnam was a very far-seeing lady,”
said the Squire, with a laugh, looking first at Alice
and then at Quincy.

A slight flush mounted to Alice’s cheeks, and
Quincy said coolly, “I do not perceive the application
of your remark.”

“Easy enough,” said the Squire, seeing
that he had put his foot in it, and that it was necessary
to explain his false step in some way; “easy
enough. I have had sole charge of her property
for six years, and she wished some cool-headed business
man to go over my accounts and see if I had been honest
in my dealings with her.”

“That way of stating the case is satisfactory,”
said Quincy, a little more genially.

“I don’t think I am in danger of being
robbed with two such trusty guardians,” said
Alice.

Then all three laughed, and the little rift was closed.
But the Squire’s words had not been unheeded
and two hearts were busily thinking and wondering
if he had really meant what he said.

The Squire then turned to Quincy. “If you
will name a day we will go over to the county town,
present the will for probate, and at any time thereafter
my books will be ready for inspection.”

Quincy named the following Wednesday, and then both
men congratulated Miss Pettengill on her good fortune,
bade her good morning, and then started to go to the
store.

As they passed through the kitchen Mandy was not in
sight. She evidently did not intend to have a
second interview with the Squire.

When they reached the store they found Strout and
Hiram and Mr. Hill and his son already there.
The business with Mr. Hill was soon concluded, and
he delivered the keys of the property to Squire Rundlett;
then the co-partnership papers were duly signed and
witnessed, and then the Squire passed the keys to
Mr. Obadiah Strout, the senior partner of the new
firm of Strout & Maxwell, who formally took possession
of the property in his own name and that of his partners.

Since Abner’s curt declination of a position
in the store, Strout had been looking around for some
one to take his place, and had finally settled upon
William Ricker, or, as he was generally called, Billy
Ricker, a popular young resident of Montrose, as it
was thought he could control a great deal of trade
in that town.

For a similar reason, Quincy and Hiram had united
in choosing young Abbott Smith, who was known by everybody
in Eastborough Centre and West Eastborough. Abbott
had grown tired of driving the hotel carriage and
wished to engage in some permanent business.

The choice was naturally not particularly palatable
to Strout, but he had consented to let bygones be
bygones and could offer no valid objection. These
two young men were to report for duty that Saturday
evening, and the close of that day’s business
terminated Benoni and Samuel Hill’s connection
with the grocery store.

Page 210

Sunday morning all of the Pettengill family went to
church and listened to a sermon by Mr. Howe, the minister,
from the text, “Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall inherit the kingdom of Heaven.”

As they were driving home, Uncle Ike remarked in his
dry, sarcastic way, “I s’pose Mr. Howe
was thinkin’ of Mrs. Putnam when he was praisin’
the peacemakers; it’s a fashion in the country,
I understand, the Sunday after a funeral to preach
in a general way about the departed one.”

“Mrs. Putnam has been very kind to me,”
protested Alice, “and you should forgive her
for my sake.”

“I’ll forgive her,” said Uncle Ike,
“when the wrong she has done has been righted.”
He shut his teeth together sharply, faced the horses
again, and lapsed into silence.

In the afternoon Quincy joined Alice in the parlor,
and they sang some sacred music together.

Quincy picked up a book from the table and said, “Why,
Miss Pettengill, by this turned down corner I imagine
there are some thirty pages of this very interesting
story, ‘The Love of a Lifetime,’ that I
have not read to you. Would you like to have
me finish it this afternoon?”

“I have been afraid to hear the last chapter,”
said Alice. “I fear Herbert and Clarice
will both die, and I so hate a book with a sad ending.
Why don’t authors keep their lovers alive—­”

“Marry them off and let them live happily ever
afterward,” Quincy concluded.

“I don’t think I could ever write a book
with a sorrowful conclusion,” mused Alice.

Quincy saw the opportunity for which he had long waited.

“Why don’t you write a book?” asked
he earnestly. “My friend Leopold says you
ought to; he further said that you were a genius, and
if I remember him correctly, compared you to a diamond—­”

“In the rough,” added Alice quickly.

“That’s it,” said Quincy; “but
Leopold added that rough diamonds should be dug up,
cut, and set in a manner worthy of their value.”

“I am afraid Mr. Ernst greatly overrates my
abilities and my worth,” said she, a little
constrainedly. “But how unkind and ungrateful
I am to you and Mr. Ernst, who have been so kind and
have done so much for me. I will promise this
much,” she continued graciously. “I
will think it over, and if my heart does not fail
me, I will try.”

“I hope your conclusion will be favorable,”
remarked Quincy. “In a short time you will
be financially independent and freed from any necessity
of returning to your former vocation. I never
knew of an author so completely successful at the
start, and I think you have every encouragement to
make literature your ‘love of a lifetime.’”

“I will try to think so too,” replied
Alice softly.

Then he took up the book and finished reading it.
When he had closed, neither he nor she were thinking
of that future world in which Herbert and Clarice
had sealed those vows which they had kept so steadfastly
and truly during life, but of the present world, bright
with promise for each of them, in which there was
but one shade of sorrow—­that filmy web
that shut out the beauties of nature from the sight
of that most beautiful of God’s creations, a
lovely woman.

Page 211

Monday morning Quincy made another trip to Boston.
He had obtained the measurements for a large sign,
upon which, on a blue ground, the words “Strout
& Maxwell” were to appear in large gold letters.
He paid another visit to the carriage factory, and
ordered two leather covered wagon tops, to be used
in stormy weather, and picked out two sets of harness
resplendent with brass buckles and bosses and having
“S. & M.” in brass letters on the blinders.

He reached Aunt Ella’s in time for lunch.
He told her of the approaching wedding of Ezekiel
and Huldy; then, leaning over, he whispered something
in her ear, which made her face beam with delight.

“What a joke it will be,” cried she, “and
how the country folks will enjoy it. Can’t
I come down to the wedding, Quincy, and bring my landau,
my double span of cream-colored horses, and my driver
and footman in the Chessman livery? I’ll
take you and your lady love to the church.”

“Why, certainly,” said Quincy. “I’ll
ask Miss Mason to send you an invitation.”

“Let me do something to help,” begged
the impetuous but good-hearted Aunt Ella. “Bring
the girls up some morning early. We will go shopping,
then we’ll lunch here. We will have to go
without our wine and cigars that day, you know, and
then we’ll go to the modiste’s and the
milliner’s in the afternoon. We’ll
make a day of it, young man.”

Quincy leaned back in his easy-chair and blew a ring
of blue smoke from one of Uncle Robert’s cigars.

“Excuse me, Aunt Ella,” said he, “but
do you ever intend to get married again?”

“Quincy Adams Sawyer!” cried Aunt Ella,
with an astonished look on her face, “are you
joking?”

“Certainly not,” replied Quincy.
“My question was intended to be a serious and
respectful inquiry. You are only forty, fine looking,
well educated, well connected and wealthy. Why
should you not?”

“I will answer you seriously then, Quincy.
I could not marry again. Ten years’ life
with Robert Chessman was a greater pleasure than a
lifetime with an ordinary man. I was twenty-five
when I married him; we lived together ten years; he
has been dead for five. How often I have wished
that Robert had lived to enjoy his fortune with me.

“But he was satisfied,” she continued.
“’Better be a success at the end,’
he used to say, ’than be a success in middle
life and fall from your greatness. Look at Wolsey,
look at Richelieu, look at Napoleon Bonaparte.’
He would often remark: ’Earth has no sadder
picture than a broken idol.’ He used to
consider Abraham Lincoln the most successful man that
ever lived, for he died before making a mistake, and
when he was strongest in the hearts of the people.

“Your question reminds me,” continued
Aunt Ella, “of something I had in mind to say
to you at some future day, but I may as well say it
now. How much money have you, Quincy, and what
is your income?”

“Father gave me fifty thousand dollars outright
when I was twenty-one; it pays on an average six per
cent. Besides this he allows me two thousand
a year for supposed professional services rendered
in his law office.”

Page 212

“That makes five thousand a year,” said
Aunt Ella quickly. “Well, I’ll allow
you five thousand more a year, and the day you are
married I’ll give you as much outright as your
father did. That’s unconditional. Now,
conditionally, if you bring your wife here and live
with me you shall have rooms and board free, and I’ll
leave you every dollar I possess when I’m through
with it. Don’t argue with me now,”
she continued, as Quincy essayed to speak. “Think
it over, tell her about it. You will do as you
please, of course, but I shall not change my mind on
this point.”

“Didn’t your husband leave any relatives
that might turn up and prevent any such disposition
of your property?”

“When we married, Robert said he was alone in
the world,” replied Aunt Ella; “he had
no sisters, and only one brother, named Charles.
Charles was an artist; he went to Paris to study about
thirty-five years ago. From there he went to
London. Some thirty years ago Robert got a letter
from him in which he said he was going to return to
America. Robert waited, but he did not come;
then he wrote again to his English address, but the
letter was returned with the words ‘Gone to America’
endorsed thereon.”

“Was he married?” inquired Quincy.

“Robert never knew,” said Aunt Ella, “but
he imagined not, as Charlie, as he called him, never
spoke in his letters of being in love, much less of
being married.”

Quincy caught the three o’clock train to Eastborough
Centre, and Ellis Smith, another son of ’Bias
Smith, who had taken the hotel carriage in place of
his brother Abbott, drove him home.

A few days thereafter invitations to the wedding of
Ezekiel Pettengill and Hulda Ann Mason were sent broadcast
through Eastborough Centre, West Eastborough, Mason’s
Corner, and Montrose. Then it was decided by the
gossips that Ezekiel was going to have Mr. Sawyer and
Hiram Maxwell and Sam Hill to stand up with him, while
Huldy Ann was going to have Alice Pettengill, Mandy
Skinner, and Tilly James as bridesmaids.

The whole town turned out when the two gaudy wagons,
with their handsome horses and fine harness reached
Eastborough Centre, and a number of Centre folks followed
the unique procession over to Mason’s Corner.
One of the wagons contained the new sign, which was
soon put in place, and was a source of undisguised
admiration for a long time.

On the tenth of April, Strout & Maxwell’s two
heavy teams went over to Eastborough Centre and returned
about noon heavily loaded, followed by three other
teams from the Centre equally well filled. Then
Mr. Obadiah Strout could contain himself no longer.
He let the cat out of the bag, and the news spread
like wildfire over the village, and was soon carried
to Eastborough Centre and to Montrose. The Mason’s
Corner church was to have a new organ, a present from
Mr. Sawyer, and Professor Obadiah Strout had been
engaged to officiate for one year.

The nineteenth of April was fixed for Huldy’s
wedding day. The hour was ten in the morning.
As early as eight o’clock teams began to arrive
from north, east, south, and west. Enough invitations
had been issued to fill the church, and by half-past
nine every seat was taken.

Page 213

The little church was profusely decorated with vines,
ferns and potted plants, while a wealth of cut flowers
adorned the altar, the front of the new organ, which
rose towering to the very top of the church, and the
pews reserved for the bridal party.

Outside the edifice hundreds of sightseers, not honored
with invitations, lined both sides of the spacious
Square in front of the church, and occupied positions
of vantage on the steps.

It lacked but ten minutes of ten. The sexton
rung a merry peal from the sweet-toned bell, which
was the pride of the inhabitants of Mason’s
Corner. Within the church the ushers, having attended
to the seating of the audience, stood just within
the door awaiting the arrival of the bride and groom.
They were in dress suits, with white gloves, and each
had a white rose in his butonhole. Robert Wood
and Cobb’s twins had been assigned to the right
of the centre aisle, while Abbott Smith, Benjamin
Bates, and Emmanuel Howe had charge of the left side
of the edifice. If any noticed the absence of
Samuel Hill and Hiram Maxwell, it did not provoke
general remark, although Mrs. Hawkins asked Jonas if
he’d seen Mandy anywhere, and Tilly James’s
school chum, Eliza Allen, managed to occupy two seats,
so as to have one for Tilly when she came.

At exactly five minutes of ten, Professor Strout emerged
from the rear of the platform and proceeded towards
the new organ. He, like the ushers, was in a
dress suit, with a white rose in the lapel of his coat.
He was greeted with applause and bowed his acknowledgements.
He took his seat at the organ and played a soft prelude,
during which the Rev. Caleb Howe entered and advanced
to the altar.

Then loud cheers were heard from the assembled crowd
outside. The organ stopped and the sexton again
filled the air with merry peals. The sight outside
was one which those inside could not see, and therefore
could not appreciate. What was that coming up
the road? Mason’s Corner had never seen
an equipage like that before. An open carriage,
drawn by four cream-colored horses, with white manes
and tails and silver-tipped harness. A coachman
in livery sat upon the box, while a footman, in similar
livery, rode behind. Following behind this were
other carriages, containing the other members of the
bridal party.

Within the church every eye was turned upon the door
through which the party was to come. Professor
Strout’s sharp eye saw the first couple as they
reached the entrance, and the strains of Mendelssohn’s
Wedding March, that have preceded so many happy bridals,
sounded through the church. The party included
Ezekiel and Huldy, Deacon Mason and wife, Mr. Sawyer
and Miss Alice Pettengill, and a handsome, richly dressed
lady unknown to any of the villagers, who was escorted
by Mr. Isaac Pettengill.

Ezekiel and Huldy advanced and took their positions
before the minister, while the remainder of the party
took seats in one of the bridal pews.

Page 214

When the ceremony was over the audience naturally
expected that the wedded couple would leave the church
by the right-hand aisle, on both sides of which, from
end to end, white silk ribbons had been drawn to keep
the passage clear.

But no! Shouts and cheers were again heard from
outside the church, again the church bell rang out,
and once more the melody of the Wedding March fell
upon the ears of the Professor’s auditors, while
to their astonishment Ezekiel and his wife seated
themselves quietly in the front bridal pew. Again
every eye was turned, every neck was craned, and Samuel
Hill and Tilly James walked down the centre aisle and
took their places before the clergyman. Again
the solemn words were spoken, and this time the spectators
felt sure that the double couple would leave the church
by the silken pathway.

But no; again were cheers and shouts from the outside
borne to the excited spectators within. Once
more the sexton sent out pleasing tones from the church
bell; once more the Professor evoked those melodious
strains from the sweet-toned organ; and as Samuel Hill
and his wife took their seats in the front pew beside
Mr. and Mrs. Ezekiel Pettengill, the excitement of
the audience could no longer be controlled. It
overcame all restraint, and as Hiram Maxwell and Mandy
Skinner entered, the people arose to their feet and
cheered loudly, as they would have done at a political
meeting or a circus.

Again, and for the last time, the Rev. Mr. Howe went
through the time-honored ceremony, and at its close
Mr. and Mrs. Ezekiel Pettengill, Mr. and Mrs. Samuel
Hill, and Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Maxwell left the church
by way of the right-hand aisle, preceded by the ushers,
who strewed the aisle with white roses as they advanced,
and were followed by the occupants of the second bridal
pew.

As Quincy rode over to Eastborough Centre with his
Aunt Ella, after partaking of the wedding breakfast,
which was served in Deacon Mason’s dining-room,
she remarked to him that the events of the day had
been most enjoyable, and that she didn’t know,
after all, but that she should change her mind about
getting married again.

When asked by Quincy if she had seen any one whom
she thought would suit her for a second husband, she
replied that “Mr. Isaac Pettengill was a very
well-preserved old gentleman, and the most original
man in thought and speech that she had met since Robert
died.”

Quincy did not inform her that Uncle Ike had a wife
and two grown-up daughters living, thinking it best
to reserve that information for a future occasion.

That night Strout & Maxwell’s grocery store
was the centre of attraction. Strout was in his
glory, and was, of course, in his own opinion, the
most successful feature of that eventful day.
It was a very common thing to get married, but it
was a most uncommon thing to play on a new church
organ, and play as well as he had done, “for
the first time, too,” as he remarked a score
of times.

Page 215

Stepping upon a barrel, the Professor called out in
a loud voice, “Order, please,” and in
a short time the assembled crowd became quiet.

“Friends and Feller Citizens: I have this
day received my commission as postmaster at Mason’s
Corner, Mass. Mail matter will be sorted with
celerity and delivered only to the proper parties,
while the firm of Strout & Maxwell will always keep
on hand a full assortment of the best family groceries
at reasonable prices. Soliciting your continued
patronage, I remain, yours respectively.

ObadiahStrout, Postmaster.

As the Professor stepped down from the barrel, Abner
Stiles caught him by the arm and said in a low voice,
“Isn’t Deacon Mason one of your bondsmen?”

“Yes,” said Strout, somewhat pompously,
“but what of it?”

“Why, yer see,” said Abner, “I’m
workin’ for the Deacon now, and I’m just
as devoted to his interests as I used to be to yourn
onct, and with a much better hope of reward, both
on this earth and in Heaven, and if he’s got
money put up on yer, of course yer won’t object
if I drop in onct in a while and kinder keep an eye
on yer.” And with this parting shot he
dashed out a side door and was lost to sight.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Blennerhassett.

When comparatively great events follow each other
in quick succession, those of minor importance are
liable to escape mention. It was for this reason,
probably, that the second visit of Dr. Tillotson was
not spoken of at the time of its occurrence.
He examined Alice’s eyes and declared that progress
towards recovery was being made, slowly but surely.
He left a bottle of new medicine, and advised Alice,
as an aid to recovery, to take a long walk, or a ride,
each pleasant day. This advice he repeated to
Uncle Ike, who was waiting for him outside the front
door, and to Quincy, who brought him from the station
and took him back.

On the day fixed upon, Quincy drove over to Montrose,
and accompanied by Squire Rundlett, went to the county
town and presented Mrs. Putnam’s will for probate.
In due time the will was admitted, the executors’
bonds were filed and approved, and Quincy, at the age
of twenty-three, found himself one of the financial
guardians of the young heiress, Mary Alice Pettengill,
she being his junior by less than two years.

About ten days after Quincy’s interview with
his Aunt Ella, in which she had signified her intention
of making him an allowance, he received a letter from
a Boston banking firm, informing him that by direction
of Mrs. Ella Chessman, the sum of five thousand dollars
had been placed to his credit, and that a similar
sum would be so placed on the first business day of
January in each succeeding year. A blank card
was enclosed for a copy of his signature, and the
statement made that his drafts would be duly honored.

When Quincy and his aunt reached Eastborough Centre,
after the trio of weddings, they found that they had
a full hour to wait before the arrival of the next
ingoing train.

Page 216

This gave plenty of time for the reloading of the
horses and carriage on the special car in which they
had been brought from Boston and which had been side-tracked.

Quincy wished to accompany his aunt to Boston and
escort her to her home, but she demurred. He
insisted, but his aunt replied, “Don’t
go, please don’t, Quincy; they will take me
for your mother, and I really am not quite old enough
for that.”

This argument was unanswerable, and Quincy bade her
a laughing good-by as the train sped on towards Boston,
the special car in charge of the coachman and footman
bringing up the rear.

Thus Aunt Ella’s visit to Mason’s Corner
became an event of the past, but the memory of it
remained green for a long time in the minds of those
who had witnessed her arrival and departure.

Ellis Smith drove Quincy home to the Pettengill house.
It was to be home no longer, for Hiram and Mandy were
to have the room that Quincy had occupied so long.
His trunk and other belongings he had packed up the
night before, and at Quincy’s request, Cobb’s
twins had taken them out to Jacob’s Parlor,
where he found them. He knew that Mr. and Mrs.
Hawkins were to spend the afternoon with their daughter
and son-in-law.

Quincy also knew that Uncle Ike and Alice were at
Deacon Mason’s, where Ezekiel and Huldy were
to remain for the coming week.

For the first time since he had been at Mason’s
Corner, Quincy felt lonesome and deserted. He
reflected on his way to Mrs. Hawkins’s boarding
house that these weddings were all very nice, to be
sure, but they had deprived him of the society of
many good friends, who were now united by stronger
ties than those of simple, everyday friendship.

He did not care to go to the grocery store, for he
felt that the Professor was entitled to all the credit
that he was likely to get for his day’s performance,
and he did not wish to detract from it. So he
went directly to his room, and for the first time felt
out of sorts with Eastborough and its people.

He was not hungry for food, so he did not answer the
call to supper, but sat in the dark and thought.
He realized that he was hungry, yes, desperately hungry,
for love—­the love of one woman, Alice Pettengill.
Why should he wait longer? Even if his father
and mother objected his Aunt Ella was on his side,
and her action had made him independent. He had
felt himself so before, but now there was no doubt
of it.

This determined young man then made up his mind he
would declare his love at the first auspicious moment.
Then he would go to his parents and learn their verdict
on his proposed action. Thinking thus he went
to bed, and in his dreams, ushers, and bridesmaids,
and cut flowers, and potted plants, and miles of silken
ribbon, and cream-colored horses, and carriages, and
clergymen, and organists, and big pipe organs were
revolving about him and Alice, as the planets revolve
about the sun.

Page 217

Once more Quincy’s breakfast was on the stove
being kept warm, and once more Mrs. Hawkins was waiting
impatiently for him to come down.

Betsy Green and she were washing the breakfast dishes.
How happy Eve must have been in Eden, where there
was no china, no knives and forks, and no pots and
kettles, and what an endless burden of commonplace
drudgery she entailed upon her fair sisters when she
fell from her high estate. Man’s labor
is uniformly productive, but woman’s, alas! is
still almost as uniformly simply preservative.

“Mr. Sawyer,” said Mrs. Hawkins to Betsy
Green, “is no doubt a very nice young man, but
I shouldn’t want him for a steady boarder, ’less
he got up on time and eat his meals reg’lar.”

“I s’pose he’s all tired out,”
remarked Betsy. “He had a pretty hard day
of it yesterday, you know, Mis’ Hawkins.”

“Wall, I s’pose I ought to be kinder easy
on him on that account. I must say he managed
things fust rate.”

“How did the brides look?” asked Betsy.

Poor girl, she was one of the few who were not able
to view the grand sight.

“I can think of no word to express my feelin’s,”
replied Mrs. Hawkins after a pause, “but splendiferous!
Huldy’s dress was a white satin that would a
stood alone. She had a overskirt of netted white
silk cord, heavy enough to use for a hammock.
You know she’s neither light nor dark, kind
of a between, but she looked mighty poorty all the
same.”

“Was Tilly James dressed in white, too?”
inquired Betsy.

“No,” answered Mrs. Hawkins. “She
wore a very light pink silk, with a lace overskirt,
and it just matched her black eyes and black hair fine,
I can tell yer.”

“Mandy must have looked pretty, with her light
curly hair and blue eyes, and those rosy cheeks.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Hawkins reflectively,
“I’m her mother, and a course I’m
prejoodished, but I honestly think she was the best
lookin’ one of the three. Of course Hiram
is no beauty, and I’m all out of patience when
he tries to talk to me. But I know he’ll
make Mandy a good husband, and that’s a tarnal
sight better’n good looks.”

“What color was Mandy’s dress?”
persisted Betsy.

“Lord a massy,” cried Mrs. Hawkins, “I
e’en a’most forgot to tell yer. Her
dress was a very light blue silk, with a lace overskirt,
’bout the same as Tilly’s. Mr. Sawyer
gave her two hundred dollars to buy her things with,
’cause she’s been so nice to him since
he boarded at Pettengill’s.”

“Who was that stylish lookin’ lady that
came in a carriage with the four beautiful horses?
I saw her outer the attic winder.”

“She was a Mrs. Chessman,” replied Mrs.
Hawkins. I heern tell she’s a widder’d
aunt of Mr. Sawyer’s, and she’s as rich
as Creazers.”

“How rich is that?” inquired Betsey, with
an astonished look.

“Creazers,” replied Mrs. Hawkins, with
an expression that savored of erudition, “was
a man who was so all fired rich that he had to hire
folks to spend his money for him.”

Page 218

At that moment a step was heard in the dining-room,
and both Mrs. Hawkins and Betsy flew to wait upon
the new-comer who proved to be Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer.
As he took his seat at the table the Connecticut clock
on the mantelpiece struck ten.

At eleven o’clock that same morning Mr. Sawyer
knocked at the front door of Mr. Ezekiel Pettengill’s
residence. How strange it seemed, how much more
homelike it would have been to have entered by the
back door and to have come through the kitchen and
dining-room, as of old. But no! He was not
a regular boarder now, only an occasional visitor.

The door was opened by young Mrs. Maxwell, and her
usually rosy cheeks were ruddier than ever when she
saw who the caller was.

“Is Miss Pettengill in?” Quincy politely
inquired.

“She’s in the parlor, sir; won’t
you walk in?” And she threw open the door of
the room in which Alice sat by the fire.

“I’m so glad you have come, Mr. Sawyer,”
said Alice, extending her hand. “I never
was so lonesome in my life as I have been this morning.
The house seems deserted. Uncle Ike ate too many
good things yesterday, and says he is enjoying an
attack of indigestion to-day. I had Swiss in here
to keep me company, but he wouldn’t stay and
Mandy had to let him out.”

“He came up to Mrs. Hawkins’s,”
said Quincy, as he took his accustomed seat opposite
Alice. “He walked down with me, but when
he saw me safe on the front doorstep he disappeared
around the corner.”

“I didn’t tell him to go after you,”
said Alice, laughing; “but I am very glad that
you have come. I have a very important matter
to consult you about. You know you are my business
man now.”

“I’m always at your service,” replied
Quincy. “I think I know what you wish to
see me about.”

“And what do you think it is?” asked Alice,
shaking her head negatively.

“Well,” said Quincy, “I saw Squire
Rundlett the day before the weddings and he thought
that you might possibly want some money. He had
a thousand dollars in cash belonging to you, and I
brought you half of it. If you will kindly sign
this receipt,” he continued, as he took a small
parcel from his pocket, “you will relieve me
of further responsibility for its safe keeping.”

He moved the little writing table close to her chair,
and dipping the pen in the ink he handed it to her,
and indicated with his finger the place where she
should sign. She wrote as well as ever, though
she could see nothing that she penned.

“There are eight fifty-dollar bills, eight tens
and four fives,” he said, as he passed her the
money.

“Which are the fifties?” she asked, as
she handled the money nervously with her fingers.

“Here they are,” said Quincy, and he separated
them from the rest of the bills and placed them in
her hands.

Page 219

“Oh! thank you,” said she. She counted
out four of the bills and passed them to Quincy.
“That settles my money debt to you, does it not?”
she inquired; “but nothing can pay the debt
of gratitude that I owe you for your many acts of
kindness to me, Mr. Sawyer.”

“I am fully repaid by that very kind speech
of yours,” replied Quincy. “But what
was the important matter you wished to see me about?
I don’t think it was the money.”

“It was not,” said Alice. “I
have little use for money just at present. I
never had so much before at once in all my life.
I shall have to learn to be an heiress.”

“It’s a lesson that is very easily learned,”
replied Quincy.

“What I wish to speak about,” continued
Alice, musingly, “is Mrs. Putnam’s house.
I could never live in it. I could never go into
that room again;” and she shuddered.

“You can sell it,” interposed Quincy.

“No,” said Alice earnestly, “I am
going to give it away. Father just made a living
here, and Ezekiel can do no better, but with the Putnam
farm, properly stocked, he can in time become a rich
man, for he is a good farmer, and he loves his work.
I wish,” continued Alice, “to give ’Zekiel
and Huldy the farm outright, then I would like to loan
him enough money to buy live stock and machinery and
whatever else he may need, so that he may begin his
new life under the most favorable auspices.”

“I think your proposed action a most commendable
one,” remarked Quincy. “I am sure
you need anticipate no objections on the part of Squire
Rundlett or myself. Our duties are limited to
seeing that all the property that was willed to you
is properly delivered. It gives us no right to
interfere with your wishes or to question your motives.
I will see Squire Rundlett at an early day and have
the matter put into shape. Does Ezekiel know
of this?”

“Not a word,” said Alice; “I do
not wish to speak to him about it until the matter
is all settled and the papers are signed. He is
high spirited, and at the first mention I know he
would refuse my offer, especially if he thought ’twas
only known to us two. But when he learns that
the deed is done, and that the Squire and yourself
are knowing to it, he will be more tractable.”

“Speaking of the Putnam house, or more properly,
I suppose, Pettengill house number two—­”

“This will always be number one,” interposed
Alice.

“—­reminds me,” said Quincy,
that my efforts to discover Lindy’s whereabouts
have so far proved unavailing. The advertisement
that I put in for a month has run out and I have received
no word.”

“Do you think she went to New York, as she promised?”
inquired Alice.

“I do not,” replied Quincy. “I
think she always had an idea that Mrs. Putnam had
some letter or document in her possession relating
to her parents. I think the poor girl lost hope
when she learned that it was destroyed, and I imagine
that she has intentionally hidden herself and does
not wish to be found. I might, after long search,
discover her bankers, but she has probably notified
them to keep her address a secret. I do not like
to confess,” he continued, “to so abject
a failure, but I really do not know what to do next.”

Page 220

“We must wait and hope,” said Alice.
Then looking up at Quincy with an arch smile upon
her face, she added, “I will extend your time,
Sir Knight. Your gallant efforts have so far
been unsuccessful, but I shall pray that you may some
day return victorious.”

Quincy replied in the same tone of banter: “Knowing
that you, fair lady, are ever thinking of me, and
that my name is ever upon your fair lips in prayer,
will spur me to renewed effort, for surely no cavalier
ever had a more lovely mistress or a greater incentive
to knightly action.”

Although he spoke in a chaffing tone, there was an
undercurrent of seriousness in his manner and pathos
in his voice that made Alice start and flush visibly.

Fearing that he had gone too far he quickly changed
the subject by asking abruptly, “Have you come
to any decision about your book?”

“Yes,” replied Alice, “and I am
ashamed to say that your friend’s suggestion
and your warm endorsement of it have so increased my
egotism and enlarged my appreciation of my own abilities
that I am tempted to try it, especially now, as you
inform me I am independent and can do as I please.”

“Have you progressed so far as to fix upon a
subject?” inquired Quincy.

“Yes, provisionally,” replied Alice.
“I have always been a great admirer of history,
and particularly that of my own country. For the
period from 1776, no, from 1607, to the present time
I have become conversant with the thoughts and acts
of our patriots and public men. One character
has always been a mystery to me, and I wish to learn
all I can about him.”

“And he?” questioned Quincy.

“Is Aaron Burr,” said Alice. “How
I wish I could learn the truth about the loss of his
daughter Theodosia; then the real reasons for his duel
with Alexander Hamilton are not fully understood at
the present day. Then again, I should enjoy writing
about that fine old Irish gentleman and lover of science,
Harman Blennerhassett, and his lovely wife, Margaret.”

“Have you decided upon the title?” still
further questioned Quincy.

“I have thought of two,” she replied,
“‘Theodosia,’ and ‘Blennerhassett,’
but I strongly incline to the latter.”

“So do I,” said Quincy, “but you
will have to do much more reading, no doubt, before
you commence writing. Historical novels are usually
savagely attacked by the critics, presumably very often
from political motives, and you would have to be very
strong in your authorities.”

“That is what troubles me,” said Alice;
“if I only could read—­”

“But others can read to you and make such notes
as you desire,” remarked Quincy. “I
should like nothing better than to help you in such
a work, but I have been away from home so long that
I feel it imperative to resume my business duties
at an early day.”

“I think you ought,” said Alice.
“I could not presume to trespass upon your kindness
and good nature to such an extent. The idea of
writing this book has grown very pleasing to me, but
I can wait until—­” She stopped speaking
and placed both of her hands over her eyes. “I
can wait,” she repeated, “until my eyes
are better.”

Page 221

“Will you allow me to make a suggestion, Miss
Pettengill?”

Alice smiled and nodded. “You are my literary
as well as my financial adviser,” said she.

“It will no doubt appear quite an undertaking
to you,” continued Quincy, “but I shall
be very glad to help you. My plan is to secure
a lady who reads well and can write a good hand to
assist you. Besides this, she must understand
correcting proof sheets. I think Leopold could
easily find such a person for you. Then, again,
you know what Dr. Tillotson said about your taking
exercise and fresh air. The second feature of
my plan, and the most important in my mind, is to
find some quiet place in the country, or at the beach,
where you and your amanuensis can both work and play.
I can buy for you such books as you need, and you can
finish the work this summer.”

Alice reflected. After a few moments’ pause
she said, “I like the plan and I thank you very
much for speaking of it; but I prefer the beach.
I love the plash and roar and boom of the water, and
it will be a constant inspiration to me. How
soon can I go?” she asked, with a look upon her
face that a young child might have had in speaking
to its father.

This was Alice Pettengill’s great charm.
She was honest and disingenuous, and was always ready
to think that what others deemed it best for her to
do was really so. Imitation may be the sincerest
flattery, but appreciation of the advice and counsel
of others, combined with gratitude for the friendly
spirit that prompts it, makes and holds more friends.

Quincy looked at his watch.

“I can get the afternoon train, I think,”
said he. “I will see Leopold, and then
run up and make Aunt Ella a call. She knows the
New England coast from Eastport to Newport. Did
she speak to you at the wedding?”

“Some lady with a very pleasant voice asked
me if I were Miss Pettengill, while we were in the
church,” replied Alice. “I said yes,
and then she told me that her name was Chessman, adding
the information that she was your aunt, and that you
could tell me all about her.”

“I shall be happy to,” said Quincy; “but
I can assure you it would be much more enjoyable for
you to hear it from herself. I hope you will
have that pleasure some day.” And again
adopting a bantering tone, “I trust, fair lady,
I shall not return this time from a bootless errand.”

Alice listened again, as she had often done, until
she heard the sound of departing wheels, and then
she fell to wondering whether her future paths in
life would continue to be marked out by this Sir Knight,
who was ever at her beck and call, and whether it
was her destiny to always tread the paths that he
laid out for her.

“Please pass me that package of papers on the
corner of the table,” answered Leopold, being
loath to rise from his recumbent position on the lounge.

Page 222

Quincy did as requested and took a seat beside Leopold.

“These,” said Leopold, “are the
proofs of the first writings of a to-be-famous American
author. Glad she took a man’s name, so I
don’t have to say authoress. Here,”
he continued, “are the proofs of the story,
Was it Signed? Cooper wishes it read and returned
immediately. Editors wish everything done immediately.
They loaf on their end and expect the poor author
to sit up all night and make up for their shortcomings.
I’m a sort of editor myself, and I know what
I’m talking about. This lot,” he
continued, “will appear in ‘The Sunday
Universe’ a week from next Sunday. I had
a copy made for Jameson to work from. Bruce Douglas
owes me four-fifty for expenses, necessary but not
authorized.”

“I will see that you are reimbursed,”
said Quincy; “want it now?” and he made
a motion to take out his pocketbook.

“No,” replied Leopold, “I’m
flush to-day; keep it till some time when I’m
strapped. Last, and most important of all, here
are the proofs of the story that is to appear in our
monthly. Now, my advice to you is, Quincy, seek
the fair author at once, correct these proofs and have
them back to me within three days, or they’ll
go over and she’ll be charged for keeping the
type standing, besides having her pay hung up for
another week.”

“She won’t mind that,” said Quincy,
with a laugh. “She’s an heiress now,
with real and personal property valued at fifty thousand
dollars. But what am I to do?” asked he
seriously. “I could read the manuscript,
but we have no one at Eastborough who knows how to
make those pothooks and scratches that you call ‘corrections.’”

“Well, you two young aspirants for literary
fame are in a box, are’nt you? I was thinking
about that fifty thousand. Perhaps I’d better
go home with you and get acquainted with the author,”
said Leopold with a laugh.

“Well,” returned Quincy, “it would
be very kind of you in our present emergency, but,
strange as it may seem, I came to see you this afternoon
about securing a literary assistant for Miss Pettengill.
She has decided to write that book.”

“Good girl!” cried Leopold, sitting bolt
upright upon the lounge. “I mean, good
boy, for it was, no doubt, your acknowledged powers
of argument and gently persuasive ways that have secured
this consummation of my desire. Let me think;”
and he scratched his head vigorously. “I
think I have it,” said he, finally. “One
of our girls down to the office worked so hard during
our late splurge that the doctor told her she must
rest this week. She rooms over on Myrtle Street.
I happened to be late in getting out one day last
week, and we walked together up as far as Chestnut
Street. She lives nearly down to the end of Myrtle
Street.”

“No further explanation or extenuation is necessary,”
said Quincy. “Is she pretty?”

Page 223

“You’re right, she is,” replied
Leopold, “She’s both pretty and smart.
She has a beautiful voice and writes a hand that looks
like copperplate. She’s a first-class proof
reader and a perfect walking dictionary on spelling,
definitions, and dates. They treat her mighty
shabby on pay, though. She’s a woman, so
they gave her six dollars a week. If she were
a man they’d give her twenty, and think themselves
lucky. I’ll run over and see if she is
at home. At what time could she go down with you
to-morrow?” he asked.

“I’ll come after her at nine o’clock.
Tell her Miss Pettengill will give her eight dollars
a week, with board and lodging free.”

“All right,” cried Leopold, “that’s
business. While I’m gone just see how pretty
those stories look in cold type. I’ve been
all through them myself just for practice.”

Leopold dashed out of the room and Quincy took up
the proofs of the story, Was It Signed? He became
so absorbed in its perusal that Leopold pulled it
out of his hand in order to attract his attention.

“It’s all right,” he said.
“She’s delighted at the idea of going.
She thinks the change will do her good. She can’t
build up very fast in a little back room, up three
flights.”

“What’s her name?” asked Quincy.

“Oh! I forgot,” replied Leopold.
“I’ll write her name and address down
for you. There it is,” said he, as he passed
it to Quincy. “Her first name is Rosa,
and that’s all right. She’s of French-Canadian
descent, and her last name is one of those jawbreakers
that no American can pronounce. It sounded something
like Avery, so she called herself at first Rosa Avery;
then the two A’s caused trouble, for everybody
thought she said Rose Avery. Being a proof reader,”
continued Leopold, “she is very sensitive, so
while the name Rosa satisfied her inmost soul, the
name Rose jarred upon her sensibilities. Thus
another change became necessary, and she is now known,
and probably will continue to be known, as Miss Rosa
Very, until she makes up her mind to change it again.”

“I’m greatly obliged, Leopold,”
said Quincy, making the proofs into a flat parcel
and putting them into his inside overcoat pocket.

“Don’t mention it, old fellow,”
remarked Leopold. “You may be the means
of supplying me with an assistant some day. If
you should, don’t fail to call my attention
to it.”

Aunt Ella was at dinner when Quincy arrived.
She sent word up by Buttons for Quincy to come down
to the dining-room at once. She was alone in the
room when he entered.

“Just in time,” said he, “and I’m
hungry as a bear.”

“That’s a good boy; sit down and help
me out,” said his aunt. “These extravagant
servants of mine cook ten times as much as I can possibly
eat.”

“I don’t imagine it is wasted,”
replied Quincy.

“I think not,” said Aunt Ella, with a
laugh; “for, judging from the extra plentiful
supply, they probably have a kitchen party in view
for this evening. But what keeps you away from
Eastborough over night?”

Page 224

“I thought you couldn’t eat and talk at
the same time,” remarked Quincy.

“I can’t,” she replied. “I’m
through eating and I’m going to sit and listen
to you. Go right ahead, the servants won’t
come in. I won’t let them stand and look
at me when I’m eating. If I want them I
ring for them.”

Quincy then briefly related the principal events that
had taken place at Mason’s Corner since the
nineteenth, remarking, incidentally, that he had received
no word from Lindy.

“Let her alone, and she’ll come home when
she gets ready,” said Aunt Ella. “As
to the best place for your young lady to go, I shall
have to think a minute. Old Orchard is my favorite,
but I’m afraid it would be too noisy for her
there, the hotels are so close to the railroad track.
I suppose your family, meaning your mother’s,
of course, will go to Nahant, as usual. Sarah
would have society convulsions at Old Orchard.
I should like to see her promenading down in front
of the candy stores, shooting for cigars in the shooting
gallery, or taking a ride down to Saco Pool on the
narrow-gauge; excuse me for speaking so of your mother,
Quincy, but I have been acquainted with her much longer
than you have.” She went on, “Newport
is too stylish for comfort. Ah! I have it,
Quincy. I was there three years ago, and I know
what I’m talking about. Quaint place,—­funny
looking houses, with little promenades on top,—­crooked
streets that lead everywhere and nowhere,—­very
much like Boston,—­full of curiosities,—­hardy
old mariners and peaceable old Quakers,—­plenty
of nice milk and eggs and fresh fish,—­more
fish than anything else,—­every breeze is
a sea breeze, and it is so delightfully quiet that
the flies and mosquitoes imitate the inhabitants, and
sleep all day and all night.”

“Where is this modern Eden, this corner lot
in Paradise?” asked Quincy; “it can’t
be part of the United States.”

“Not exactly,” replied Aunt Ella; it’s
off shore, I forget how many miles, but you can find
it swimming around in the water just south of Cape
Cod.”

“Oh! you mean Nantucket,” cried Quincy.

“That’s the place,” assented his
aunt. “Now, Quincy, I’ll tell you
just what I want you to do, and I want you to promise
to do it before I say another word.”

“That’s a woman’s way,” remarked
Quincy, “of avoiding argument and preventing
a free expression of opinion by interested parties;
but I’ll consent, only be merciful.”

“What I’m going to ask you to do, Quincy
Sawyer, is for your good, and you’ll own up
that I’ve been more than a mother to you before
I get through.”

“You always have been,” said Quincy, seriously.
“Of course, I love my mother in a way, but I’m
never exactly comfortable when I’m with her.
But when I’m with you, Aunt Ella, I’m always
contented and feel perfectly at home.”

Page 225

“Bless you, my dear boy,” she said.
Then, rising, she went behind his chair, leaned over
and kissed him on the forehead; then, pulling a chair
close to him, she went on: “I haven’t
spoken to you of her, Quincy, because I have had no
opportunity until now. I’ve fallen in love
with her myself. I am a physiognomist as well
as a phrenologist. Robert taught me the principles.
She’s almost divinely lovely. I say almost,
for, of course, she’ll be still lovelier when
she goes to Heaven. Her well-shaped head indicates
a strong, active, inventive mind, while her pure heart
and clean soul are mirrored in her sweet face.
She is a good foil for you, Quincy. You are almost
dark enough for a Spaniard or an Italian, while she
is Goethe’s ideal Marguerite.”

It was not necessary for Quincy to ask to whom she
referred, nor to praise her powers of discernment.
It was Aunt Ella’s time for talking, and she
was not inclined to brook any interference. So
she went on.

“I want you to bring her here to me and have
Rosa What-d’yer-call-her come with her.
Here they can work and play until you get the nest
ready for her down to Nantucket. You say she
plays and sings. I love music passionately, but
I can’t play a note, even on a jew’s-harp;
but if she plays a wrong note I shall feel inclined
to call her attention to it. When I used to go
to the theatre with Robert, I delighted in telling
him how badly some of the members of the orchestra
were playing, but I repented of it. He got in
the habit of going out between the acts to escape
the music, he said, and I never could keep him in his
seat after that.”

Quincy laughed heartily at this. “I see
no way of stopping this bad habit that gentlemen have
of going out between the acts,” said he, “unless
you ladies combine, and insist on a higher grade of
orchestral excellence.”

“I have a large library,” continued Aunt
Ella, “and she may find many books in it that
will be of use to her. Robert spent eighteen thousand
dollars on it, and I’ve bought a couple of thousand
dollars’ worth more since his death. Now,
what do you say, Quincy? You know I will do all
in my power to make her comfortable and happy while
she is here. If Maude runs up, and she’s
the only one that is likely to, I will tell her that
I have friends here from England. I will keep
her out of the way. Will you bring her?”

“If she will come, I will,” Quincy replied.

“You will never repent it,” said Aunt
Ella. “Now let us go upstairs.”

When they reached her room the cigars and cigarettes
were again in requisition.

“I kept my promise the other day, Quincy,”
said she, “when the three girls were here.
What a sweet, rosy-cheeked, healthy, happy trio they
were! I wasn’t more than twenty myself that
day. I give you my solemn promise, Quincy, that
I won’t smoke a cigarette nor drink a glass of
wine while Alice is here,—­until after she
goes to bed; and then I’ll eat a clove and air
the room out thoroughly before I let her in in the
morning.”

Page 226

Quincy was up early next morning, and at ten minutes
of nine reached the lodging house in Myrtle Street.
He had taken a carriage, for he knew Miss Very would
have her luggage, probably a trunk. His call at
the door was answered by a sharp-eyed, hatchet-faced
woman, whose face was red with excitement. To
Quincy’s inquiry if Miss Very was in, the woman
replied, “that she was in and was likely to stay
in.”

“I trust she is not sick,” said Quincy.

“No! she ain’t sick,” the woman
replied, “what you mean by sick; but there’s
worse things than bein’ sick, especially when
a poor widder has a big house rent to pay and coal
seven dollars and a half a ton.”

A small trunk, neatly strapped, stood in the hallway.
Glancing into the stuffy little parlor, he saw a woman,
apparently young, with her veil down, seated on a
sofa, with a large valise on the floor and a hand bag
at her side.

Quincy divined the situation at once. Stepping
into the hallway, he closed the parlor door, and,
turning to the woman, said, “How much?”

“Three dollars,” replied the woman, “and
it’s cheap enough for—­”

“A miserable little dark stuffy side room, without
any heat, up three flights, back,” broke in
Quincy, as he passed her the money.

The woman was breathless with astonishment and anger.
Taking advantage of this, Quincy opened the parlor
door, first beckoning to the coachman to come in and
get the trunk.

“Miss Very, I presume?” said Quincy, as
he advanced towards the young lady on the sofa.

She arose as he approached, and answered, “Yes,
sir.”

“Come with me, please,” said he, grasping
the valise. She hesitated; he understood why.
“It’s all right,” he said, in a low
tone. “I’ve settled with the landlady,
and you can settle with me any time.”

“Thank you, so much,” spoke a sweet voice
from underneath the veil, and the owner of it followed
close behind him, and he handed her into the carriage.
As Quincy pulled the carriage door to, that of the
lodging house closed with a report like that of a
pistol, and Mrs. Colby went down stairs and told the
servant, who was scrubbing the kitchen floor, what
had occurred, and added that she “had always
had her suspicions of that Miss Very.”

* * * *
*

While Quincy was talking with Alice the day before,
his dinner that Mrs. Hawkins had saved for him was
being burned to a crisp in and on the stove.
Mrs. Hawkins’s attention was finally attracted
to it, and, turning to Betsy, she said, “Law
sakes, somethin’ must be burnin’.”
Running to the stove, she soon discovered the cause.
“Mercy on me!” she ejaculated. “I
left that damper open, and his dinner’s burnt
to a cinder. Wall, I don’t care; he may
be a good lodger, an’ all that, but he’s
a mighty poor boarder; and it’s no satisfaction
gittin’ up things for him to eat, and then lettin’
them go to waste, even if he does pay for it.
Them’s my sentiments, and I’ll feel better
now I’ve spit it out.”

Page 227

The good woman went to work to clean up her stove,
while Betsy kept on with the seemingly endless dish
washing. Mrs. Hawkins finished her work, and,
going to the sink, began to wipe the accumulated pile
of dishes.

“I s’pose everybody in town will go to
church next Sunday,” said Mrs. Hawkins, “to
see them brides.”

“Will they look any different than they did
the other day?” Betsy innocently inquired.

“Well, I guess,” remarked Mrs. Hawkins.
“I saw Mandy yesterday and she told me all about
her trip to the city. Mrs. Chessman went shoppin’
with them, and the way she beat them shopkeepers down
was a sight, Mandy says. It beats all how them
rich folks can buy things so much cheaper than us
poor people can. She took them all home to dinner,
and Mandy says she lives in the most beautifulest
house she ever saw. Then she went to the dressmakers
with them, and she beat them down more’n five
dollars on each gown. Then she took ’em
to the millinery store, and she bought each one of
them a great big handsome hat, with feathers and ribbons
and flowers all over ’em. Nobody has seen
’em yet, but all three on ’em are going
to wear ’em to church next Sunday, and won’t
there be a stir? Nobody’ll look at the
new orgin.”

“I wish I could go,” said Betsy.

Mrs. Hawkins rattled on: “Mandy says she
took ’em all into a jewelry store, and bought
each one on ’em a breast-pin, a pair of earrings,
and a putty ring, to remember her by. Then she
druv ’em down to the deepo in her carriage.”

“I wish I could see them with all their fine
things on,” said Betsy, again.

“Well, you shall, Betsy,” said good-hearted
Mrs. Hawkins. “I’ll make Jonas help
me wash the dishes Sunday mornin’, and you shall
go to church.”

Betsy’s face was wreathed in smiles.

“You’re so good to me, Mrs. Hawkins,”
she cried.

“Well,” answered Mrs. Hawkins, “you’ve
worked like a Trojan the last week, and you deserve
it. I guess if I go up in the attic I can git
a good look at them as they’re walking home
from church.”

In her excitement the old lady dropped a cup and saucer
on the floor, and both mistress and maid went down
on their hands and knees to pick up the pieces.

CHAPTER XXXV.

“Thebirdoflove.”

The carriage containing Quincy and Rosa was driven
at a rapid rate toward the station. There was
no time to lose, as some had already been lost in
the altercation with Mrs. Colby. They had proceeded
but a short distance, when Rosa took out a pocketbook,
and, lifting her veil, turned her face to Quincy.

What a striking face it was! Large, dark blue
eyes, regular features, a light olive complexion,
with a strong dash of red in each cheek, full red
lips, and hair of almost raven blackness. Like
lightning the thought flashed through Quincy’s
mind, “What a contrast to my Alice!” for
he always used the pronoun when he thought of her.

Page 228

“Allow me to cancel part of my indebtedness
to you,” said Rosa, in a low, sweet voice, and
Quincy again thought how pleasant that voice would
be to Alice when Miss Very was reading to her.

As Rosa spoke she handed Quincy a two-dollar bill
and seventy-five cents in currency.

“I owe you an explanation,” she continued.
“Mr. Ernst told me that I must be ready to accompany
you the moment you called, so I packed and strapped
my trunk last evening. When I returned from breakfast
this morning I looked through my pocketbook, and found
to my surprise that I lacked a quarter of a dollar
of enough to pay for my week’s lodging.
In my haste I had put my jewel case, which contained
the greater part of my money, in my trunk, and I realized
that there would not be time to unpack and pack it
again before your arrival. I offered Mrs. Colby
the two seventy-five, and told her I would send her
the balance in a letter as soon as I arrived at my
destination. To my astonishment, she refused
to take it, saying that she would have the three dollars
or nothing.”

“If I had known that,” said Quincy, “she
would have got nothing.”

“Oh! it’s all right,” remarked Rosa,
with a smile. “I know the poor woman has
hard work to make a living, and I also know that she
has lost considerable money from persons failing to
pay at all or paying part of their bills and then
not sending the balance, as they promised to do.”

“And did she get up all that ugliness for a
quarter of a dollar?” inquired Quincy.

“Oh! that wasn’t the reason at all,”
replied Rosa; “I’ve always paid her promptly
and in advance. She was mad because I was going
away. If she lets the room right off she will
get double rent this coming week, for it so happened
my week ended last night.”

“Lodging-house keepers,” said Quincy,
“seem to be a class by themselves, and to have
peculiar financial and moral codes. Here we are
at the station,” he added, as the carriage came
to a stop.

As Quincy handed Rosa from the carriage, his observant
eye noticed that the hand placed in his was small
and well-gloved, while the equally small feet were
encased in a pair of dainty boots. “She
is true to her French origin,” he soliloquized,
as they entered the station,—­“well-booted,
well-gloved. I am glad she is a lady.”

The train was soon on its way to Eastborough.
It was an accommodation, and Quincy had plenty of
time to point out the objects of interest on the way.
Rosa was not a lover of the country. She acknowledged
this to Quincy, saying that she was born and educated
in the country, but that she preferred paved streets
and brick sidewalks to green lanes and dusty roads.

Alice had not waited for Quincy’s return to
broach the matter of the gift of the Putnam house
to Ezekiel and Huldy. She had simply asked Quincy,
so as to assure herself that there was no legal objection
or reason why she should not make the transfer.

Page 229

After breakfast the next morning she told her uncle
that she wished to have a talk with him in the parlor,
and when they were alone together, she stated her
intentions to him, as she had to Quincy. The old
gentleman approved of her plan, only suggesting that
it should be a swap; that is, that Ezekiel should
deed the house in which they were, in which, in fact,
she owned a half-interest, to her, so she would be
sure of a home in case she lost part of her money,
or all of it, or wished to live in the country.

Most opportunely, Ezekiel and Huldy came over that
morning to make a call, and the matter was soon under
discussion in family conclave.

Ezekiel at first objected strenuously to the gift.
He would buy the house, he said, and pay so much a
year on it, but both Alice and Uncle Ike protested
that it was foolish for a young couple to start in
life with such a heavy debt hanging over them.

The only circumstance that led him to change his mind
and agree to accept the Putnam homestead as a gift
was Uncle Ike’s suggestion that he deed the
Pettengill homestead to Alice, and pay her all he received
for the sale of products from the present Pettengill
farm; but ’Zekiel would not accept any loan.
He said Deacon Mason had given his daughter five thousand
dollars outright, and that would be all the cash they
would need to stock and carry on both the farms.

Then ’Zekiel said he might as well settle on
who was to live in the two houses. He knew that
Cobb’s twins would like to stay with him, and
he would take them up to the Putnam house with him.
Mrs. Pinkham had been hired by the executors to remain
with Samanthy until some one came to live in the house.
Ezekiel said Samanthy was a good girl, and he and
Huldy both liked her, and he felt pretty sure she’d
be willing to live with them, because she was used
to the house, and as it was the only one she’d
ever lived in, it would seem like going away from home
if she left there and went somewhere else.

Then ’Zekiel was of the opinion that Abbott
Smith and Billy Ricker had better board with Hiram
and Mandy, because the grocery teams and horses would
have to be kept in the Pettengill barn, as there was
no stable to the grocery store. “‘Twon’t
be stealin’ anythin’ from Mrs. Hawkins
if they don’t board with her, cuz none of ’em
ever lived with her afore.”

“Don’t you think, ’Zekiel,”
asked Huldy, “that Uncle Ike ought to come down
stairs and have a better room? It will be awful
hot up there in the summer. Alice and I used
to play up there, and in July and August it was hot
enough to roast eggs, wasn’t it, Alice?”

Alice, thus appealed to, said it might have been hot
enough, but she was positive that they never did roast
any up there, although she remembered setting the
attic floor on fire one day with a burning glass.
’Zekiel remembered that, too, and how they had
to put new ceilings on two rooms, because he used
so much water to put the fire out.

Page 230

When Uncle Ike got a chance to speak, he said to Huldy,
“Thank you, my dear Mrs. Pettengill,”
with a strong accent on the Mrs., which made Huldy
blush a rosy red, “but I wouldn’t swap
my old attic for all the rest of the rooms in the
house. My old blood requires warmth, and I can
stand ninety-six without asking for a fan. When
I come up to see you, you can put me in one of your
big square rooms, but I sha’n’t stay long,
because I don’t like them.”

The noise of wheels was heard, and Huldy ran to the
window to look out.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Sawyer,” said she;
“and he’s got a young lady with him, and
she’s got a trunk. I wonder who she is?
Do you know, Alice?”

“I don’t know who she is,” replied
Alice; “but I can imagine what she’s here
for.”

“Is it a secret?” asked Huldy.

“No, not exactly a secret,” replied Alice.
“It’s a business matter. I have a
great many things to be read over to me, and considerable
writing to do, and as Mr. Sawyer is going away, I
was obliged to have some one to help me.”

“Well!” said Huldy, “you’ll
miss Mr. Sawyer when he goes away; I did. Now
you mustn’t get jealous, Mr. Pettengill,”
she said to ’Zekiel; “you know Mr. Sawyer
and I were never in love with each other. That
was all village gossip, started by, you know who,
and as for Mr. Sawyer liking Lindy Putnam, or she
liking him, I know better. She’s never got
over the loss of her brother Jones, who, it seems,
wasn’t her real brother, after all; and Samanthy
Green told me the other day that Lindy wanted to marry
him.”

“I think matters are getting rather too personal
for me,” said Uncle Ike, rising. “I
may get drawn into it if I stay any longer. I
always liked Lindy Putnam myself.” And
the old gentleman laughed heartily as he left the
room.

“Well, I guess you and me’d better be
goin’, if we want to be home at dinner time,”
said ’Zekiel to Huldy. Then, going to his
sister, he took her in his arms and kissed her on
the cheek. “You know, Alice,” said
he, “that I ain’t much of a talker, but
I shall never forget how good you’ve been to
me and Huldy, and if the old house burns down or you
get lonesome, you’ll always find the latchstring
out up to the new house, an’ there’ll
be a room, an’ board, an’ good care for
you as long as you want to stay. Eh, Huldy?”
said ’Zekiel, turning to his wife.

“You know, ’Zekiel,” replied the
impulsive Huldy, “I’ve said a dozen times
that I wished Alice would come and live with us.
Won’t you, Alice?” she added. “I
never had a sister, and I think it would be delightful
to have one all to myself, especially,” she added
archly, “when I have her brother, too.”

“I could never live in that house,” said
Alice, with a slight shudder; “besides, I think
my future path in life is being marked out for me by
the hand of Fate, which I am powerless to resist.
I am afraid that it will take me away from you, my
dear ones; but if it does, I shall always love you
both, and pray for your happiness and success.”

Page 231

At the front door ’Zekiel and Huldy met Quincy.
The latter had turned Miss Very over to the care of
Mrs. Maxwell, and had got one of the twins to carry
the young lady’s trunk to her room, which was
the one formerly occupied by Mandy. He had then
driven the carryall around to the barn and was returning,
anxious to bear his tidings of success to Alice, when
he met the departing couple.

“I hear you are going to leave us,” said
Huldy.

“Who told you?” inquired Quincy.

“Alice,” replied Huldy; “and I told
her she’d miss you very much when you were gone.”

“I am afraid,” replied Quincy, “that
any service that I have rendered Miss Pettengill has
not been of so important a nature that it would be
greatly missed. I am glad that I have succeeded
in securing her a companion and assistant of her own
sex, which will much more than compensate for the
loss of my feeble services.”

“That’s what I don’t like about
city folks,” said Huldy Pettengill, as she walked
along the path, hanging on her husband’s arm.

“What’s that?” asked ’Zekiel
bluntly.

“Because,” continued Huldy, “they
use such big words to cover up their real feelings.
Of course, he wouldn’t let on to us, but any
one with half an eye could see that he’s head
over heels in love with your sister Alice, and he’d
stand on his head if she told him to.”

“Well, Alice is too sensible a girl to ask him
to do that sort of thing,” said ’Zekiel
frankly. “Any way, I don’t believe
she’s in love with him.”

“’Twould be a great match for her,”
said Huldy.

“I don’t know ’bout that. On
general principles, I don’t believe in country
girls marryin’ city fellers.”

“I know you don’t,” said Huldy,
and she gave his arm a little squeeze.

“But,” continued ’Zekiel, “Alice
is different from most country girls. Besides,
she’s lived in the city and knows city ways.
Anyway, I sha’n’t interfere; I know Mr.
Sawyer is a respectable young man, and, by George!
when he wants to do anything, don’t he jest put
it through. The way he sarcumvented that Strout
was as good as a circus.”

“I think I sarcumvented that Strout, too,”
said Huldy, as they reached the corner of Deacon Mason’s
front fence.

“You’ve been quite a little flirt in your
day,” remarked ’Zekiel, “but it’s
all over now;” and he squeezed the little hand
that stole confidingly into his big, brawny one.

Quincy at once entered the parlor and found Alice
seated in her accustomed easy-chair.

“You have returned, Sir Knight,” was the
remark with which Alice greeted him.

“I have, fair lady,” replied Quincy, in
the same vein; “I have captured one of the enemy
and brought her as a prisoner to your castle.
Here are some documents,” he continued, as he
placed the proofs in Alice’s hands, “that
contain valuable secrets, and they will, no doubt,
furnish strong evidence against the prisoner.”

Page 232

“What is it?” asked Alice, holding up
the package.

“They are the proofs of three of your stories,”
replied Quincy, relapsing into commonplace; “and
Leopold says they must be read and corrected at once.
If we can attend to this during the afternoon and
evening, I will go up to Boston again to-morrow morning.”
Quincy then told Alice about Rosa and the terms that
he had made with her, and Alice expressed herself
as greatly pleased with the arrangement. “You
will find Miss Very a perfect lady,” said Quincy,
“with a low, melodious voice that will not jar
upon your ears, as mine, no doubt, has often done.”

“You are unfair to yourself, when you say that,”
remarked Alice earnestly. “Your voice has
never jarred upon my ears, and I have always been
pleased to listen to you.”

Whether Quincy’s voice would have grown softer
and sweeter and his words more impassioned if the
interview had continued, cannot be divined, for Mrs.
Maxwell at that moment opened the parlor door and called
out, “Dinner’s ready,” just as Mandy
Skinner used to do in the days gone by.

Miss Very was introduced to Alice and the others at
the dinner table, and took the seat formerly occupied
by ’Zekiel. Quincy consented to remain
to dinner, as he knew his services would be required
in the proof reading. When Cobb’s twins
reached the barn, after dinner, Jim said to Bill,
“Isn’t she a stunner! I couldn’t
keep my eyes off’n her.”

“Neither could I,” rejoined Bill.
“I tell yer, Jim, style comes nat’ral
to city folks. I’ll be durned if I know
whether I had chicken or codfish for dinner.”

After the noonday meal the three zealous toilers in
the paths of literature began work. Quincy read
from the manuscript, Rosa held the proofs, while Alice
listened intently, and from time to time made changes
in punctuation or slight alterations in the language.
No sentence had to be rewritten, and when the reading
of the story, Was It Signed? was finished, Rosa said,
“A remarkably clean set of proofs; only a few
changes, and those slight ones. In the case of
very few authors are their original ideas and second
thoughts so harmonious. How do you manage it,
Miss Pettengill?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Alice,
with a smile, “unless it is that I keep my original
ideas in my mind until they reach the stage of second
thoughts, and then I have them written down.”

“You will find Miss Pettengill very exact in
dictation,” said Quincy to Rosa. “I
took that long story there down in pencil, and I don’t
think I was obliged to change a dozen words.”

“To work with Miss Pettengill,” remarked
Rosa, “will be more of a pleasure than a task.”

This idea was re-echoed in Quincy’s mind, and
for a moment he had a feeling of positive envy towards
Miss Very. Then he thought that hers was paid
service, while his had been a labor—­of love.
Yes, it might as well be put that way.

The sun had sunk quite low in the west when the second
story, Her Native Land, was completed. “How
dramatic!” cried Rosa; “the endings of
those chapters are as strong as stage tableaus.”

Page 233

“It is being dramatized by Jameson of the ‘Daily
Universe,’” said Quincy.

“I am well acquainted with Mr. Jameson,”
remarked Rosa; “I belong to a social club of
which he is the president. He is a very talented
young man and a great worker. He once told me
that when he began newspaper work he wrote eighteen
hours out of twenty-four for a month, and nearly every
night he woke up and made notes that he wrote out in
the morning. Do you believe in unconscious mental
cerebration, Mr. Sawyer?”

“I’m afraid not,” replied Quincy,
laughing; “I never had ideas enough to keep
my brain busy all day, much less supply it with work
at night.”

“Mr. Sawyer is always unfair to himself,”
remarked Alice to Miss Very. “As for myself,
I will answer your question in the affirmative.
I have often gone to bed with only the general idea
of a story in my mind, and have awakened with the
details all thought out and properly placed.”

“I think it best to postpone the reading of
the last story until after supper,” said Quincy.

“To speak honestly,” replied Rosa, “I
do not. I told Mr. Sawyer so on the train.
It is hotter in the country than it is in the city.
I can’t bear the ticking of a clock in my room,
and I think crickets and owls are more nerve-destroying
than clocks, and I positively detest anything that
buzzes and stings, like bees, and wasps, and hornets.”

“And I don’t,” said Rosa frankly.
“I like beefsteak and roast lamb, but I never
saw a cow that didn’t have a ferocious glare
in its eye when it looked at me.” Both
Quincy and Alice laughed heartily. “As for
horses,” continued Rosa, “I never drive
alone. When I’m with some one I alternate
between hope and fear until I reach my destination.”

“I trust you were more hopeful than fearful
on your way from Eastborough Centre,” said Quincy.

“Oh! I saw at a glance,” remarked
Rosa, “that you were a skilful driver, and I
trusted you implicitly.”

“I have had to rely a great deal upon Mr. Sawyer,”
remarked Alice, “and, like yourself, I have
always placed the greatest confidence in him.
Huldy told me this morning, Mr. Sawyer, that I would
miss you very much, and I know I shall.”

“But you will have Miss Very with you constantly,”
said Quincy.

“Oh! she does not like the country,” continued
Alice, “and she will get homesick in a little
while.”

“One’s likes and one’s duties often
conflict,” said Rosa; and a grave look settled
upon her face. “But how can you write your
book down here, Miss Pettengill? You will have
to consult hundreds of books, if you intend to write
an historical novel, as Mr. Sawyer told me you did.
You ought to have access to the big libraries in Boston,
and, besides, in the second-hand bookstores you can
buy such treasures for a mere song, if you will only
spend the time to hunt for them.”

Page 234

“That reminds me,” broke in Quincy, “that
my aunt, Mrs. Chessman,—­she is my mother’s
only sister, who lives on Mt. Vernon Street,—­wished
me to extend a cordial invitation to you two young
ladies to visit her, while I am getting your summer
home ready for you. She suggests Nantucket as
the best place for work, but with every opportunity
for enjoyment, when work becomes a burden.”

“Oh, that will be delightful,” cried Rosa.
“I love the sea, and there we shall have it
all around us; and at night, the great dome of Heaven,
studded with stars, will reach down to the sea on every
side, and they say at ’Sconset, on the east
end of the island, that when the breakers come in
the sight is truly magnificent.”

Quincy was inwardly amused at Rosa’s enthusiasm,
but it served his purpose to encourage it, so he said,
“I wish Aunt Ella were her to join forces with
Miss Very. You would find it hard work to resist
both of them, Miss Pettengill.”

“You mean all three of you,” said Alice,
with a smile.

“If we go to Nantucket,” added Rosa, “I
shall have to spend a week in the city, and perhaps
more. I have no dresses suitable for so long a
residence at the beach.”

“Neither have I,” coincided Alice, with
a laugh.

There the matter was dropped. Quincy knew too
much, to press the question to a decision that evening.
He had learned by experience that Alice never said
yes or no until her mind was made up, and he knew that
the answer was more likely to be favorable if he gave
her plenty of time for reflection; besides, he thought
that Alice might wish to know more particularly what
his aunt said, for she would be likely to consider
that his aunt must have some reason for giving such
an invitation to two persons who were virtually strangers
to her.

After supper, the third story, How He Lost Both Name
and Fortune, was read and corrected, and it was the
unusually late hour of eleven o’clock before
the lights in the Pettengill house were extinguished.
It was past midnight when Quincy sought his room at
Mrs. Hawkins’s boarding house, and the picture
of Alice Pettengill, that he had purloined so long
ago, stood on a little table at the head of his bed,
leaning against a large family Bible, which he found
in the room.

The next morning he was up early, and visited the
grocery store. Mr. Strout and Hiram both assured
him that business had picked up amazingly, and was
really “splendid.” The new wagons
were building up trade very fast. Billy Ricker
went over to Montrose for orders Monday, Wednesday,
and Friday mornings, and delivered them in the afternoons.
This gave Abbott Smith a chance to post up the books
on those days, for he had been made bookkeeper.
He went to Eastborough Centre and Westvale, the new
name given to West Eastborough at the last town meeting,
Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings. He
delivered goods on the afternoons of those days, which
gave him an opportunity to spend Sunday at home with
his father and his family.

Page 235

When Quincy reached the Pettengill house, Mrs. Maxwell
informed him that Miss Pettengill was in the parlor
alone. After greeting Alice, Quincy asked, “But
where is Miss Very?”

“I told her I should not need her services until
after I had seen you,” she replied. “I
have a question to ask you Mr. Sawyer, and I know you
will give me a truthful answer. What led your
aunt to invite me to come and visit her?”

Quincy knew that Alice had been considering the matter,
and this one simple question, to which she expected
a truthful answer, was the crucial test.

He did not hesitate in replying. If he did, he
knew the result would be fatal to his hopes.

“Only the promptings of her own good nature.
She is one of the warmest-hearted women in the world,”
continued Quincy. “I will tell you just
how it happened. I told her I had found an assistant
to help you in your work, and that the next thing
was to fix upon a place for a summer residence.
I asked her opinion, and after considering the advantages
and disadvantages of a score of places, she finally
settled upon Nantucket as being the most desirable.
Then she said, ’While you are finding a place
and getting it ready for them, ask Miss Pettengill
to come and visit me and bring her friend. Tell
her that I am rich, as far as money goes, but poor
in love and companionship. Tell them both that
I shall love to have them come and will do everything
I can to make their visit a pleasant one.’
Those were her words as nearly as I can remember them;”
and Quincy waited silently for the decision.

It soon came. Alice went to him and extended
her hand, which Quincy took.

“Tell her,” said Alice in her quiet way,
“that I thank her very much and that we will
come.”

“How soon?” inquired Quincy anxiously
and rather abruptly.

“In a few days,” replied Alice. “I
can get ready much sooner with Miss Very to help me.”

She withdrew the hand, which she had unconsciously
allowed to remain in his so long, and a slight flush
mounted to her cheek, for Quincy had equally unconsciously
given it a gentle pressure as he relinquished it.

“I must do up these proofs,” said he,
going to the table. “I will get the next
train to Boston. I will be back to-morrow noon,
and in the afternoon I will drive over to Montrose
about that deed of the Putnam house. I know Aunt
Ella will be delighted to hear that you are coming.”
But he said nothing about his own delight at being
the bearer of the tidings.

When he had gone, Alice sat in her chair as she had
many a time before and thought. As she sat there
she realized more strongly than she had ever done
that if Fate was marking out her course for her, it
had certainly chosen as its chief instrument the masterful
young man who had just left her.

The remainder of that day and the morning of the next
Alice spent in dictating to Rosa a crude general outline
of Blennerhassett. During the work she was obliged,
naturally, to address Rosa many times, and uniformly
called her Miss Very. Finally Rosa said, “Wouldn’t
you just as soon call me Rosa? Miss Very seems
so stiff and formal.”

Page 236

“I hope you will not consider me uncompanionable
or set in my ways,” remarked Alice. “We
are working, you know, and not playing,” she
continued with a sweet smile. “I have no
doubt you are worthy of both my esteem and love, but
I have known you less than a day and such things come
slowly with me. Let me call you Miss Very, because
you are that to me now. When the time comes,
as I feel it will, to call you Rosa, it shall come
from a full heart. When I call you Rosa, it will
be because I love you, and, after that, nothing will
ever change my feelings towards you.”

“I understand you,” replied Rosa.
“I will work and wait.”

Quincy arrived at about the same time of day that
he did when he came with Rosa. Miss Very had
gone to her room, so that he saw Alice alone.
He told her that his aunt was greatly pleased at her
acceptance and would be ready to receive her at any
time that it was convenient for her to come.
He proffered his services to aid her in getting ready
for the journey, but she told him that with Miss Very’s
help she would need no other assistance.

“I have another matter of business to speak
about,” continued she, “and if you will
kindly attend to that, when you go to Montrose, it
will oblige me very much. You are always doing
something to make me your debtor,” she added
with a smile.

“I would do more if you would allow me,”
replied Quincy.

“The fact is,” said Alice, “’Zekiel
does not wish to borrow any money, nor would he accept
the gift of the Putnam homestead unless he, in turn,
deeded this house and farm to me. He is going
to run this farm and pay me what he gets from the
sale of products. If you will have Squire Rundlett
draw up both deeds and the agreement, the whole matter
can be fixed before I go away.”

Quincy promised to give his attention to the matter
that afternoon. He drove up to his boarding house
and hitched his horse at the front door. Mrs.
Hawkins saw him enter and take his seat at the dinner
table. “There’s that Mr. Sawyer;
he’s slept in this house just one night and
eaten just one meal up to this noon for nigh on a week.
Them city folks must have Injun rubber stummicks and
cast iron backs or they couldn’t eat in so many
different places and sleep in so many different beds.
Why, if I go away and stay over night, when I git home
I’m allus sicker’n a horse and tired enough
to drop.”

Quincy went to Montrose that afternoon and saw Squire
Rundlett. The latter promised to make the papers
out the next day, and said he would bring them over
for signing the following morning. Quincy drove
down to Deacon Mason’s and told ’Zekiel
when to be on hand, and after leaving the team in
the Pettengill barn, saw Alice and informed her of
the Squire’s proposed visit. He told her
that he would come down that morning to act as a witness,
if his services were required.

He spent the next day at the grocery store, going
over the stock with Strout and Abbott Smith, and had
a list made of articles that they thought it would
be advisable to carry in the future. He told Strout
that he would visit some wholesale grocery houses in
Boston and have samples sent down.

Page 237

“Mr. Sawyer is improvin’,” said
Mrs. Hawkins to Betsy the next morning after breakfast.
“He’s slept in his bed two nights runnin’,
and he’s eat four square meals, and seemed to
enjoy them, too. I guess he didn’t git
much when he was jumpin’ ’round so from
one place to another.”

Squire Rundlett kept his word, and the legal documents
were duly signed and executed. Alice told the
Squire that she was going away for several months,
and that she would undoubtedly send to him from time
to time.

“My dear Miss Pettengill,” replied the
gallant Squire, “you shall have all you ask
for if I have to sell my best horse and mortgage my
house. But I don’t think it will be necessary,”
he added. “Some more dividends and interest
have come in and I have more than a thousand dollars
to your credit now.”

After the Squire had left, Alice told Quincy that
her preparations were all made, and that she would
be ready to go to Boston the next day. The mid-day
train was fixed upon. After dinner that day, Quincy
informed Mrs. Hawkins that he wished to pay his bill
in full, as he should leave for good the next day.

Holding the money in her hand, Mrs. Hawkins entered
the kitchen and addressed Betsy.

“Just what I expected,” said she; “jest
as that Mr. Sawyer got to stayin’ home nights
and eating his meals like a Christian, he ups an’
gits. I guess it’ll be a dry summer.
I kinder thought them two boys over to the grocery
would come here, but I understand they’re goin’
down to Pettengill’s, and somebody told me that
Strout goes over to Eastborough Centre every Sunday
now. I s’pose he’s tryin’ to
shine up again to that Bessie Chisholm, that he used
to be sweet on. When he goes to keepin’
house there’ll be another boarder gone;”
and the poor woman, having borrowed enough trouble,
sat down and wiped a supposed tear out of each eye
with her greasy apron.

Quincy reached Aunt Ella’s residence with the
young ladies about noon. Aunt Ella gave the three
travellers a hearty welcome, and the young ladies
were shown at once to their rooms, which were on the
third floor at the front of the house. They were
connected, so that Rosa could be close at hand in
case Alice should need assistance.

While the footman and Buttons were taking the trunks
upstairs, Quincy asked his aunt if he could leave
his trunk there for a short time. “I do
not wish to take it home,” he said, “until
after I have the ladies settled at Nantucket.
The carriage is waiting outside and I am going to
get the one o’clock train.”

“I will take good care of your trunk,”
said Aunt Ella, “and you, too, if you will come
and live with me. But can’t you stop to
lunch with us?” she asked. But Quincy declined,
and requesting his aunt to say good-by to the young
ladies for him, he entered the carriage and was driven
off.

Page 238

After luncheon, which was served in the dining-room,
General Chessman and Aides-de-Camp Pettengill and
Very held a counsel of war in the General’s
private tent. It was decided that the mornings
should be devoted, for a while, at least, to shopping
and visiting modistes and milliners. Miss Very
was also to give some of her time to visits to the
libraries and the second-hand bookstores looking for
books that would be of value to Alice in her work.
The afternoons were to be passed in conversation and
in listening to Miss Very’s reading from the
books that she had purchased or taken from the libraries.
The evenings were to be filled up with music, and
the first one disclosed the pleasing fact that Miss
Very had a rich, full contralto voice that had been
well cultivated and that she could play Beethoven
or the songs of the day with equal facility.

While the feminine trio were thus enjoying themselves
in Boston with an admixture of work and play, Quincy
was busily engaged at Nantucket in building a nest
for them, as he called it.

He had found a large, old-fashioned house on the bluff
at the north shore, overlooking the harbor, owned
by Mrs. Gibson. She was a widow with two children,
one a boy of about nineteen, named Thomas, and the
other a girl of twelve, named Dorothy, but generally
designated as Tommy and Dolly.

Mrs. Gibson consented to let her second floor for
a period of four months, and to supply them with meals.
The price was fixed upon, and Quincy knew he had been
unusually lucky in securing so desirable a location
at such a reasonable price.

There were three rooms, one a large front room, with
a view of the harbor, and back of it two sleeping
rooms, looking out upon a large garden at the rear
of the house. Quincy mentally surveyed the large
room and marked the places with a piece of chalk upon
the carpet where the piano and the bookcase were to
go. Then he decided that the room needed a lounge
and a desk with all necessary fixtures and stationery
for Rosa to work at. There were some stiff-backed
chairs in the room, but he concluded that a low easy-chair,
like the one Alice had at home, and a couple of wicker
rocking chairs, which would be cool and comfortable
during the hot summer days, were absolutely essential.

He then returned to Boston, hired an upright piano
and purchased the other articles, including a comfortable
office-chair to go with the desk. He was so afraid
that he would forget some article of stationery that
he made a list and checked it off. But this did
not satisfy him. He spent a whole morning in
different stationery stores looking over their stocks
to make sure that he had omitted nothing. The
goods were packed and shipped by express to Mrs. Thomas
Gibson, Nantucket, Mass. Then, and not till then,
did Quincy seek his aunt’s residence with the
intelligence that the nest was builded and ready for
the birds. When he informed the ladies that everything

Page 239

was ready for their reception at their summer home,
Aunt Ella said that their departure would have to be
delayed for a few days, as the delinquent dressmakers
had failed to deliver certain articles of wearing
apparel. This argument was, of course, unanswerable,
and Quincy devoted the time to visiting the wholesale
grocers, as he had promised Strout that he would do,
and to buying and shipping a long list of books that
Miss Very informed him Miss Pettengill needed for
her work. He learned that during his absence
the proofs of The Man Without a Tongue had been brought
over by Mr. Ernst and read and corrected, Aunt Ella
taking Quincy’s place as reader.

At last all was ready, and on the tenth of May a party
of three ladies and one gentleman was driven to the
station in time for the one o’clock train.
They had lunched early and the whole party was healthy,
happy, and in the best of spirits. Then came
the leave-takings. The two young ladies and the
gentleman sped away upon the train, while the middle-aged
lady started for home in her carriage, telling herself
a dozen times on the way that she knew she would be
lonesomer than ever when she got there.

The trip by train and boat was uneventful. Alice
sat quietly and enjoyed the salt sea breeze, while
both Quincy and Rosa entertained her with descriptions
of the bits of land and various kinds of sailing craft
that came in sight. It was nearly seven o’clock
when the steamer rounded Brant Point. In a short
time it was moored to the wharf, and the party, with
their baggage, were conveyed swiftly to Mrs. Gibson’s,
that lady having been notified by Quincy to expect
them at any moment. He did not enter the house.
He told Miss Very to address him care of his aunt if
they needed anything, and that Mr. Ernst and himself
would come down when Miss Pettengill had completed
two or three chapters of her book. Quincy then
bade them good-by and was driven to a modest hotel
close to the steamboat wharf. He took the morning
boat to Boston, and that afternoon informed Aunt Ella
of the safe arrival of his fair charges.

“What are you going to do now?” asked
Aunt Ella.

“I’m going to find my father,” replied
Quincy, “and through him secure introductions
to the other members of my family.”

“Good-by,” said Aunt Ella; “if they
don’t treat you well come and stay with me and
we will go to Old Orchard together about the first
of June. I never skip out the last of April,
because I always enjoy having a talk with the assessor
when he comes around in May.”

When Rosa took her seat at the new desk next morning,
she exclaimed with delight, “What a nice husband
Mr. Sawyer would make!”

“What makes you think so?” inquired Alice
gravely.

“Because he’d be such a good hand to go
shopping,” Rosa answered. “I’ve
been all over this desk twice and I don’t believe
he has forgotten a single thing that we are likely
to need.”

“Good work requires good tools,” remarked
Alice.

Page 240

“And a good workman,” interposed Rosa.

“Then we have every adjunct for success,”
said Alice, “and we will commence just where
we left off at Mrs. Chessman’s.”

The work on the book progressed famously. Alice
was in fine mental condition and Rosa seemingly took
as much interest in its progress as did her employer.
In three weeks the three opening chapters had been
written. “I wonder what Mr. Sawyer and Mr.
Ernst will think of that?” said Alice, as Rosa
wrote the last line of the third chapter.

“I am going to write to Mr. Sawyer to-day.
We must have those books before we can go much farther.
Would it not be well to tell him that we are ready
for our audience?”

Alice assented, and the letter reached Quincy one
Friday evening, it being his last call on his aunt
before her departure for Old Orchard. “Give
my love to both of them,” said Aunt Ella, “and
tell Alice I send her a kiss. I won’t tell
you how to deliver it; you will probably find some
way before you come back.”

Quincy protested that he could not undertake to deliver
it, but his aunt only laughed, kissed him, bade him
good-by, and told him to be sure and come down to
Maine to see her.

Quincy and Leopold took the Saturday afternoon boat
and arrived, as usual, about seven o’clock.
They both repaired to the hotel previously patronized
by Quincy, having decided to defer their call upon
the young ladies until Sunday morning. It was
a bright, beautiful day, not a cloud was to be seen
in the broad, blue expanse above them. A cool
breeze was blowing steadily from the southwest, and
as the young men walked down Centre Street towards
the Cliff, Leopold remarked that he did not wonder
that the Nantucketers loved their “tight little
isle” and were sorry to leave it. “One
seems to be nearer Heaven here than he does in a crowded
city, don’t he, Quincy?” Quincy thought
to himself that his Heaven was in Nantucket, and that
he was very near to it, but he did not choose to utter
these feelings to his friend, so he merely remarked
that the sky did seem much nearer.

They soon reached Mrs. Gibson’s and were shown
directly to the young ladies’ parlor and library,
for it answered both purposes. They were attired
in two creations of Mrs. Chessman’s dressmaker,
Aunt Ella having selected the materials and designed
the costumes, for which art she had a great talent.
Rosa’s dress was of a dark rose tint, with revers
and a V-shaped neck, filled in with tulle of a dark
green hue. The only other trimming on the dress
was a green silk cord that bordered the edges of the
revers and the bottom of the waist. As Quincy
looked at her, for she sat nearest to the door, she
reminded him of a beautiful red rose, and the green
leaves which enhanced its beauty. Then his eyes
turned quickly to Alice, who sat in her easy-chair,
near the window. Her dress was of light blue,
with square-cut neck, filled in with creamy white lace.
In her hair nestled a flower, light pink in color,
and as Quincy looked at her he thought of the little
blue flower called forget-me-not, and recalled the
fact that wandering one day in the country, during
his last year at college, he had come upon a little
brook, both sides of which, for hundreds of feet,
were lined with masses of this modest little flower.
Ah! but this one forget-me-not was more to him than
all the world beside.

Page 241

The greetings were soon over, and Quincy was assured
by both young ladies that they were happy and contented,
and that every requisite for their comfort had been
supplied by Mrs. Gibson.

The reading then began. Rosa possessed a full,
flexible, dramatic voice, and the strong passages
were delivered with great fervor, while the sad or
sentimental ones were tinged with a tone of deep pathos.

At the conclusion Alice said, “I wish Miss Very
could read my book to the publishers.”

“You forget,” remarked Leopold, with a
laugh, “that reading it to me will probably
amount to the same thing.”

A merry party gathered about Mrs. Gibson’s table
at dinner, after which they went for a drive through
the streets of the quaint old town. Quincy had,
as the phrenologists say, a great bump for locality.
Besides, he had studied a map of the town while coming
down, and, as he remarked, they couldn’t get
lost for any great length of time, as Nantucket was
an island, and the water supplied a natural boundary
to prevent their getting too far out of their way.

While Dolly Gibson was helping her mother by wiping
the dinner dishes, she said, with that air of judicial
conviction that is shown by some children, that she
guessed that the lady in the red dress was Mr. Leopold’s
girl, and that the blind lady in the blue dress was
Mr. Quincy’s.

After a light supper they again gathered in the parlor
and an hour was devoted to music. Leopold neither
played nor sang, but he was an attentive and critical
listener. It was a beautiful moonlight night,
and Leopold asked Rosa if she would not like to take
a walk up on the Cliff. She readily consented,
but Alice pleasantly declined Quincy’s invitation
to accompany them, and for the first time since the
old days at Mason’s Corner, he and she were
alone together.

They talked of Eastborough and Mason’s Corner
and Aunt Ella for a while. Then conversation
lagged and they sat for a time in a satisfied, peaceful
silence.

Suddenly Quincy spoke. “I had almost forgotten,
Miss Pettengill, I bought a new song yesterday morning,
and I brought it with me. If you have no objection
I will try, it over.”

“I always enjoy your singing,” she replied.

He ran down stairs and soon returned with the music.
He seated himself at the piano and played the piece
through with great expression.

“It is a beautiful melody,” remarked Alice.
“What is it?”

“It is a German song,” replied Quincy,
“by Reichardt. It is called ‘Love’s
Request.’ I will sing it this time.”

And he did sing it with all the force and fervor of
a noble, manly nature, speaking out his love covertly
in the words of another, but hoping in his heart that
the beautiful girl who listened to him would forget
the author and think only of the singer. How many
times young lovers have tried this artful trick, and
in what proportion it has been successful only Heaven
knows.

Page 242

“The words are very pretty, are they not?”
said Alice. “I was listening so closely
to the melody that I did not catch them all.”

“I will read them to you,” rejoined Quincy,
and going to the window, where the light was still
bright enough, he read the words of the song in a
low, impassioned voice:

As Quincy finished reading, Leopold and Rosa came
suddenly into the room.

“We were not eavesdropping,” explained
Leopold, “but just as we were going to enter
the room we heard your voice and knew that you were
either reading or speaking a piece, so we waited until
you had finished.”

“I was only reading the words of a new song
that I brought down to Miss Pettengill,” said
Quincy; “she liked the melody and I thought she
would appreciate it still more if she knew the words.”

“Exactly,” said Leopold; “that’s
the reason I don’t like opera, I mean the singing
part. All that I can ever make out sounds like
oh! ah! ow! and when I try to read the book in English
and listen to the singers at the same time I am lost
in a hopeless maze.”

The young gentlemen were soon on their way to their
hotel, and the next afternoon found them again in
Boston.

The month of June was a busy, but very enjoyable one,
for both Alice and Rosa. They were up early in
the morning and were at work before breakfast.
They ate heartily and slept soundly. Every pleasant
afternoon, when tea was over, they went riding.
Tommy Gibson held the reins, and although Dolly was
not yet in her teens, she knew every nook and corner,
and object of interest on the island, and she took
a child’s delight in pointing them out, and
telling the stories that she had heard about them.
The books that Quincy brought on his last visit were
utilized, and Miss Very made up another list to be
sent to him before his next visit.

The proofs of three more stories Mr. Ernst sent down
by mail, and after correction, they were returned
to him in a similar manner. Little Dolly Gibson
was impressed into service as a reader, for Rosa could
not read and correct at the same time, and there was
no obliging Mr. Sawyer near at hand. As Huldy
had said, Alice did miss him. It must be said,
in all truthfulness, not so much for himself, but
for the services he had rendered. As yet, Alice’s
heart was untouched.

Page 243

When Dolly Gibson showed her mother the money that
Miss Very had given her, at Alice’s direction,
she was told to take it right back at once, but Dolly
protested that she had earned it, and when her mother
asked her to tell how, the child, whose memory was
phenomenal, sat down and made her mother’s hair
stand almost on end and her blood almost run cold
with her recitals of the Eight of Spades, The Exit
of Mrs. Delmonnay, and He Thought He Was Dead.

In due time another letter was sent to Mr. Sawyer,
informing him that more books were needed, and that
more chapters were ready, and on the morning of the
last Sunday in June the young ladies were awaiting
the arrival of Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Ernst.

The morning had opened with a heavy shower and the
sky was still overcast with angry-looking, threatening
rain clouds. Within the little parlor all was
bright and cheerful.

Familiar voices were heard greeting Mrs. Gibson and
the children, and men’s footsteps soon sounded
upon the stairs. Leopold entered first, and,
advancing to Rosa, handed her a large bouquet of beautiful
red roses.

“Sweets to the sweet, roses to Miss Rosa,”
said he, as he bowed and presented them.

“They are beautiful,” she exclaimed.

“All roses are considered so,” he remarked
with a smile.

While this little byplay was going on, Quincy had
approached Alice, who, as usual, was sitting by the
window, and placed in her hand a small bunch of flowers.
As he did so he said in a low voice, “They are
forget-me-nots. There is a German song about them,
of which I remember a little,” and he hummed
a few measures.

“Oh! thank you,” cried Alice, as she held
the flowers before her eyes in a vain effort to see
them. “The music is pretty. Can’t
you remember any of the words?”

“Only a few,” replied Quincy. Then
he repeated in a low, but clear voice:

“There is the sweet
flower
They call forget-me-not;
That flower place on
thy breast,
And think of me.”

“Say, Quincy, can’t you come over here
and recite a little poem about roses to Miss Very,
just to help me out?” cried Leopold. “All
I can think of is:

“The rose is red,
The violet’s blue—­”

“Stop where you are,” said Rosa laughingly,
“for that will do.”

Alice dropped the forget-me-nots, in her lap.
The illusion was dispelled.

The newly-completed chapters were next read, and quite
a spirited discussion took place in regard to the
political features introduced in one of them.
Dinner intervened and then the discussion was resumed.

Alice maintained that to write about Aaron Burr and
omit politics would be the play of “Hamlet,”
with Hamlet left out; and her auditors were charmed
and yet somewhat startled at the impassioned and eloquent
manner in which she defended Burr’s political
principles.

Page 244

When she finished Leopold said, “Miss Pettengill,
if you will put in your book the energetic defence
that you have just made, I will withdraw my objections.”

“You will find that and more in the next chapter,”
Alice replied.

And the reading was resumed.

The angry, threatening clouds had massed themselves
once more; the thunder roared; the lightning flashed
and the rain fell in torrents.

Leopold walked to the window and looked out.
“Walking is out of the question,” said
he; “will you come for a sail?”

Music filled the evening, and during a lull in the
storm the young men reached their lodgings.

Another month had nearly passed. The weather
was much warmer, but there was a great incentive to
hard work—­the book was nearly finished.
Quincy had sent down a package of books soon after
his return home, and Alice and Rosa had worked even
harder than in June.

Another letter went from Miss Very to Mr. Sawyer.
It contained but a few words: “The book
is done. Miss Pettengill herself wrote the words,
’The end,’ on the last page, signed her
name, and dated it ‘July 30, 186—.’
She awaits your verdict.”

The first Sunday in August found the young ladies
again expectant. Once more they sat on a Sunday
morning awaiting the advent of their gentlemen friends.
The day was pleasant, but warm. Soon a voice was
heard at the front door. Both ladies listened
intently; but one person, evidently, was coming upstairs.
Alice thought it must be Mr. Sawyer, while Rosa said
to herself, “I think it must be Mr. Ernst.”

A light knock, the door was opened and Quincy entered.

Rosa looked up inquiringly.

“Mr. Ernst,” said Quincy, “wished
me to present his regrets at not being able to accompany
me. The fact is he will be very busy this coming
week. He is going to try to close up his work,
so that he can come down next Saturday. He intends
to take a month’s vacation. I shall come
with him, and we will endeavor to have a fitting celebration
of the completion of your book, Miss Pettengill.
You young ladies look very cool and comfortable this
hot day.”

They were both dressed in white, Alice with a sash
of blue, while Rosa wore one of pink.

“Then we shall have no reading till next Sunday,”
remarked Rosa.

“Yes,” said Quincy, seating himself in
one of the willow rockers; “we have decided
upon the following programme, if it meets with Miss
Pettengill’s approval. I am to listen to
the remainder of the book to-day. I will hand
the complete manuscript over to him to-morrow afternoon.
He will then finish the chapters that he has not read
and turn the work over to his firm, with his approval,
before he comes down for his rest. If the work
is accepted, Mr. Morton, one of the firm, will write
him to that effect.”

“The plan is certainly satisfactory to me,”
said Alice, “and Miss Very and I will be delighted
to contribute our aid to the proposed celebration.”

Page 245

Rosa then resumed her reading. But dinner time
came before it was completed. At that meal they
were all introduced to Captain Henry Marble.

“My only brother,” Mrs. Gibson said, by
way of introduction. “He’s just home
from a cruise. His ship is at New Bedford.
He is going to take the children out late this afternoon
for a sail in the harbor. He always does when
he comes here. Wouldn’t you ladies and Mr.
Sawyer like to go with him?”

Captain Marble repeated the invitation, adding that
he was an old sailor, that he had a large sailboat,
and that they were “only going to Wauwinet,
not out to sea, you know, but only up the inner harbor,
which is just like a pond, you know.”

Rosa thought it would be delightful, but such a trip
had no attractions for Alice, and it was finally decided
that Rosa should go, while Alice and Mr. Sawyer would
remain at home.

The reading of the remaining chapters of Blennerhassett
was completed by three o’clock, and at quarter
of four, Miss Very, attired in a natty yachting costume,
which formed part of her summer outfit, was ready to
accompany Captain Marble and the children on their
trip.

When they were alone Quincy turned to Alice and said,
“I bought another song yesterday morning, which
I thought you might like to hear.”

“Is it another German song?” asked Alice.

“No,” replied Quincy, as he took a roll
from the piano and opened it. “It is a
duet; the music is by Bosco, but you can tell nothing
by that. The composer’s real name may be
Jones or Smith.”

He seated himself at the piano and played it through,
as he had done with that other song two long months
before.

“I think it more beautiful than the other,”
said Alice. “Are the words as sweet as
those in that other song?”

“Then you have not forgotten the other one,”
said Quincy, earnestly.

“How could I forget it?” answered Alice.
“Rosa has sung it to me several times, but it
did not sound to me as it did when you sang it.”

“I will sing this one to you,” said he;
and Alice came and stood by his side at the piano.

Quincy felt that the time to which he had looked forward
so long had come at last. He could restrain the
promptings of his heart no longer. He loved this
woman, and she must know it; even if she rejected that
love, he must tell her.

“It is called ‘The Bird of Love,’”
he said. Then he played the prelude to the song.
He sang as he had never sung before; all the power
and pathos and love that in him lay were breathed
forth in the words and music of that song.

With his voice lingering upon the last word, he turned
and looked up at Alice. Upon her face there was
a startled, almost frightened look.

“Shall I read the words to you, Miss Pettengill?”
There was almost a command in the way he said it.
His love had o’ermastered his politeness.

Alice said nothing, but bowed her head.

Page 246

Then Quincy recited the words of the song. He
had no need to read them, for he knew them by heart.
It seemed to him that he had written the words himself.
He did not even remember the author’s name, and
Alice stood with bowed head and closed eyes and drank
in these words as they fell from his lips:

In
this heart of mine the bird of love
Has
built a nest,
Has
built a nest.
And
so she has in mine!
Response:
And
so she has in mine!

And
she toils both day and night, no thought
Of
food or rest
Of
food or rest,
And
sings this song divine.
Response:
And
sings this song divine.
Duet:
All
the day long,
Such
a sweet song,
Teaching
love true,
I
love! Do you?

When Quincy came to the last line, instead of reading
it he turned to the piano and sang it with even more
passion in his voice than at first.

“Will you try it over with me?” he said.
And without waiting for her reply he dashed off the
prelude.

Their voices rang out together until they reached
the line, “And so she has in mine.”
As Alice sang these words she opened her eyes and looked
upward. A smile of supreme joy spread over and
irradiated her face. Her voice faltered; she
stopped, then she caught at the piano with her right
hand. She tottered and would have fallen if Quincy
had not sprung up and taken her in his arms.

“Is it true, Alice?” cried he; “is
it so? Can you truly say, ’And so she has
in mine?’”

And Alice looked up at him with that glorious smile
still upon her face and softly whispered, “‘And
so she has in mine,’ Quincy.”

Quincy led her to the lounge by the window, through
which the cool evening breeze was blowing, and they
sat down side by side. It has been truly said
that the conversations of lovers are more appreciated
by themselves than by anybody else, and it is equally
true that at the most tender moment, in such conversations,
intensely disagreeable interruptions are likely to
occur.

Sometimes it is the well-meaning but unthinking father;
again it is the solicitous but inquisitive mother;
but more often it is the unregenerate and disrespectful
young brother or sister. In this case it was Miss
Rosa Very, who burst into the room, bright and rosy,
after her trip upon the water. As she entered
she cried out, “Oh! you don’t know what
you missed. I had a most delightful—­”
She stopped short, the truth flashed upon her that
there were other delightful ways of passing the time
than in a sailboat. She was in a dilemma.

Quincy solved the problem. He simply said, “Good-by,
Alice, for one short week.”

He turned, expecting to see Miss Very, but she had
vanished. He clasped Alice in his arms, and kissed
her, for the first time, then he led her to her easy-chair
and left her there.

Page 247

As he quitted the room and closed the door he met
Miss Rosa Very in the entry.

“I did not know,” said she, “but
I am so glad to know it. She is the sweetest,
purest, loveliest woman I have ever known, and your
love is what she needed to complete her happiness.
She will be a saint now. I will take good care
of her, Mr. Sawyer, until you come again, for I love
her, too.”

Quincy pressed her hand warmly, and the next moment
was in the little street. He was a rich man,
as the world judges riches, but to him his greatest
treasure was Alice’s first kiss, still warm upon
his lips.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Thentheyweremarried.

When he bade Alice good-by for a week, Quincy was
keeping a promise he had made to his father.
The second evening before he had spent with his family
at Nahant, and while he was smoking an after-dinner
cigar upon the veranda, the Hon. Nathaniel had joined
him.

“Quincy,” said the latter, “I must
ask you when you intend to resume your professional
duties. You are now restored to health, and it
is my desire that you do so at once.”

“While I would not wilfully show disrespect
to your wishes, father,” said Quincy, calmly,
“I must say frankly that I do not care to go
back to the office. The study of law is repugnant
to me, and its practice would be a daily martyrdom.”

“What!” cried the Hon. Nathaniel, starting
in his chair. “Perhaps, sir, you have fixed
upon a calling that is more elevated and ennobling
than the law.”

“One more congenial, at any rate,” remarked
Quincy.

“Then you have chosen a profession,” said
his father with some eagerness. “May I
inquire what it is?”

“It can hardly be called a profession,”
he answered. “I’ve bought a third
interest in a country grocery store.”

If the Hon. Nathaniel started before, this last piece
of information fairly brought him to his feet.
“And may I inquire, sir,” he thundered,
“if this special partnership in a country grocery
store is the summit of your ambitions? I suppose
I shall hear next that you are engaged to some farmer’s
daughter, and propose to marry her, regardless of the
wishes of your family, and despite the terrible example
supplied by your Uncle James.”

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” remarked
Quincy, calmly, “but it may if I find a farmer’s
daughter who comes up to my ideal of a wife and to
whom I can give an honest love.”

The Hon. Nathaniel sank back in his chair. Quincy
continued, “I will not try to answer your sarcastic
reference to the grocery store. It is a good
investment and an honorable business, fully as honorable
as cheating the prison or the gallows of what is due
them; but the summit of my ambition is by no means
reached. I am young yet and have plenty of time
to study the ground before expanding my career, but
I will tell you, privately and confidentially, that
my friends have asked me to run for the General Court,
and I have about decided to stand as a candidate for
nomination as representative from our district.”

Page 248

“I am glad to hear you say that, Quincy,”
said his father, somewhat mollified, and he edged
his arm-chair a little closer to his son, despite
the heavy clouds of smoke emitted from Quincy’s
cigar. “If you get the regular nomination
in our district it’s tantamount to an election.
I need scarcely say that whatever influence I may possess
will be exerted in your favor.”

“Thank you,” said Quincy; “I mean
to stump the district, anyway. If I lose the
regular nomination I shall take an independent one.
I had rather fight my way in than be pushed in.”

His father smiled and patted him on the arm.
Then they rose from their chairs, Quincy observing
that as he was going away early in the morning he
would immediately retire.

“That reminds me,” said his father.
“I have a favor to ask of you, Quincy.
It is this, Lord Algernon Hastings, heir to the earldom
of Sussex, and his sister, Lady Elfrida, are now in
Boston, and bring letters from the Lord High Chancellor,
with whom I became acquainted when I was in England,
two years ago. I have invited them to visit us
here next week, and my wish is that you will spend
as much of your time at home as possible and assist
me in entertaining them—­I mean the son,
of course, particularly.”

Quincy’s thoughts flew quickly to Nantucket
and back. Had he foreseen what was to happen
on his coming visit, he would have hesitated still
longer, but thinking that, after all, next Sunday’s
journey might not end any more conclusively than the
previous one, he presently turned to his father and
answered:

“I will do so. I must go to-morrow, but
I will return early on Monday, and will stay at home
the entire week.”

“I thank you very much, Quincy,” said
the Hon. Nathaniel, and he laid his hand on his son’s
shoulder as affectionately as he was capable of doing,
when they entered the house.

Lady Elfrida Hastings and her brother, Lord Algernon,
arrived in due season, and Quincy was there to assist
at their reception. The former was tall, and
dark, and stately; her features were cast in a classic
mould, but the look in her eye was cold and distant,
and the face, though having all the requirements of
beauty, yet lacked it. To Mrs. Sawyer and her
daughter, Florence, the Lady Elfrida was a revelation,
and they yearned to acquire that statuesque repose
that comes so natural to the daughter of an earl.
But Maude told her brother that evening that the Lady
Elfrida was a “prunes and prisms,” and
was sure to die an old maid.

Lord Algernon was tall and finely built; he had a
profusion of light brown curly hair, and a pair of
large blue eyes that so reminded Quincy of Alice that
he took to the young lord at once. They rode,
played billiards, bowled, and smoked together.

One afternoon while they were enjoying a sail in the
bay, Quincy inquired of his guest how he liked America.

“’Pon honor, my dear fellow, I don’t
know,” replied Lord Algernon. “I
came here for a certain purpose, and have failed miserably.
I am going to sail for home in a week, if my sister
will go.”

Page 249

“Then you didn’t come to enjoy the pleasures
of travel?” remarked Quincy, interrogatively.

“No! By Jove, I didn’t. My sister
did, and she supposes I did. I’m going
to tell you the truth, Mr. Sawyer. I know you
will respect my confidence.” Quincy nodded.

“The fact is,” Lord Algernon continued,
“I came over here to find a girl that I’m
in love with, but who ran away from me as soon as I
told her of it.”

“But why?” asked Quincy, not knowing what
else to say.

“That’s the deuce of it,” replied
Lord Algernon; “I sha’n’t know till
I find her and ask her. I met her at Nice, in
France; she was with her mother, a Mdme. Archimbault;
the daughter’s name was Celeste—­Celeste
Archimbault. They said they were not French, they
were French Canadians; came from America, you know.
I was traveling as plain Algernon Hastings, and I
don’t think she ever suspected I was the son
of an earl. I proposed one evening. She
said she must speak to her mother, and if I would
come the next evening about seven o’clock, she
would give me her answer, and I thought by the look
in her eye that she herself was willing to say ‘Yes’
then. But when I called the next evening they
had both gone, no one knew where.”

“You are sure she was not an adventuress?”
inquired Quincy. “Excuse the question,
my lord, but you really knew nothing about her?”

“I knew that I loved her,” said Lord Algernon,
bluntly, “and I would give half of my fortune
to find her. I know she was a true, pure, beautiful
girl, and her mother was as honest an old lady as you
could find in the world.”

“I wish I could help you,” remarked Quincy.

“Thank you,” said Lord Algernon; “perhaps
you may be able to some day. Don’t forget
her name, Celeste Archimbault; she is slight in figure,
graceful in her carriage, ladylike in her manners.
She has dark hair, large, dreamy black eyes, with
a hidden sorrow in them; in fact, a very handsome
brunette. Here is my card, Mr. Sawyer. I
will write my London address on it, and if you ever
hear of her, cable me at once and I’ll take
the next steamer for America.”

Quincy said that he would, and put the card in his
cardcase.

He excused himself to Lord Algernon and his sister
that evening; a prior engagement made it necessary
for him to leave for Boston early next morning, and
the farewells were then spoken. Lord Algernon’s
last words to Quincy were whispered in his ear, “Don’t
forget her name—­Celeste Archimbault!”

The next Sunday morning Quincy and Leopold, as they
approached Mrs. Gibson’s house on the Cliff,
found Rosa Very standing at the little gate.
She had on the white dress that she had worn the Sunday
before, but which Leopold had not seen. Upon
her head was a wide-brimmed straw hat, decked with
ribbons and flowers, which intensified the darkness
of her hair and eyes.”

“Don’t forget her name—­Celeste
Archimbault,” came into Quincy’s mind,
but he said, “Nonsense,” to himself, and
dismissed the thought.

Page 250

“All ready for a walk on the Cliff?” asked
Leopold, as he raised his hat and extended his hand
to Rosa. She shook hands with him and then with
Quincy. She opened the little gate, placed her
hand on Leopold’s arm and they walked on up
the Cliff Road.

As Quincy entered the little parlor, Alice sprang
toward him with a cry of joy. He caught her in
his arms, and this time one kiss did not suffice,
for a dozen were pressed on hair and brow and cheek
and lips.

“It is so long since you went away,” said
Alice.

“Only one short week,” replied Quincy.

“Short! Those six days have seemed longer
than all the time we were together at Eastborough.
I cannot let you go away from me again,” she
cried.

“Stay with Me, My Darling, Stay,” sang
Quincy, in a low voice, and Alice tried to hide her
blushing face upon his shoulder.

Then they sat down and talked the matter over.
“I must leave you,” said Quincy, “and
only see you occasionally, and then usually in the
presence of others, unless—­”

“Unless what?” cried Alice, and a sort
of frightened look came into her face.

“Unless you marry me at once,” said Quincy.
“I don’t mean this minute; say Wednesday
of this coming week. I have a license with me
I got in Boston yesterday morning. We’ll
be married quietly in this little room, in which you
first told me that you loved me. We could be married
in a big church in Boston, with bridesmaids, and groomsmen,
and music on a big organ. We could make as big
a day of it as they did down to Eastborough.”

“Oh, no!” said Alice; “I couldn’t
go through that. I cannot see well enough, and
I might make some terrible blunder. I might trip
and fall, and then I should be so nervous and ashamed.”

“I will not ask you to go through such an ordeal,
my dearest. I know that we could have all these
grand things, and for that reason, if for no better
one, I’m perfectly willing to go without them.
No, Alice, we will be married here in this room.
We will deck it with flowers,” continued Quincy.
“Leopold will go to Boston to-morrow and get
them. Rosamond’s Bower was not sweeter
nor more lovely than we will make this little room.
I will get an old clergyman; I don’t like young
ones; Leopold shall be my best man and Rosa shall
be your bridesmaid. Mrs. Gibson and her brother,
who I see is still here, shall be our witnesses, and
we will have Tommy and Dolly for ushers.”

Both laughed aloud in their childish glee at the picture
that Quincy had painted. “I could ask for
nothing better,” said Alice; “the ceremony
will be modest, artistic, and idyllic.”

“And economical, too,” Quincy added with
a laugh.

And so it came to pass! They were married, and
the transformation in the little room, that Quincy
and Alice had seen in their mind’s eye, was
realized to the letter. Flowers, best man, bridesmaid,
witnesses, ushers, and the aged clergyman, with whitened
locks, who called them his children, and blessed them
and wished them long life and happiness, hoped that
they would meet and know each other some day in the
infinite—­all were there.

Page 251

This was on Wednesday. On Thursday came a letter
from Aunt Ella. It contained the most kindly
congratulations, and a neat little wedding present
of a check for fifty thousand dollars. She wrote
further that she was lonesome and wanted somebody
to read to her, and talk to her, and sing to her.
If the book was done, would not Miss Very come to spend
the remainder of the season with her, and if Mr. Ernst
was there could he not spare time to escort Miss Very.

That same evening Leopold received a letter from Mr.
Morton. It simply read, “Blennerhassett
accepted; will be put in type at once and issued by
the first of November, perhaps sooner.”

The next morning Leopold and Rosa started for Old
Orchard, and the lovers were left alone to pass their
honeymoon, with the blue sea about them, the blue
sky above them, and a love within their hearts which
grew stronger day by day.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Linda’sbirthright.

For Quincy and Alice, day after day, and week after
week, found them in a state of complete happiness.
The little island floating in the azure sea was their
world, and for the time, no thought of any other intruded
upon their delightful Eden. It seemed to Quincy
all a blissful dream of love, and everything he looked
upon was wreathed in flowers and golden sunshine.

But lotus land is not so far distant from the abodes
of mortal man but that his emissaries may reach it.
The first jarring note in the sweet harmony of their
married life came in the form of a letter from Dr.
Culver, who wrote to remind Quincy that it would soon
be time to start in ploughing the political field.
Quincy’s reply was brief and to the point.

“MydearCulver:—­I
will see you in Boston on the tenth of September.
Q.A.S.”

When Aunt Ella learned that her nephew was going to
town, she made hurried preparations for her departure
from Old Orchard, and wrote to him insisting that
he and Alice should come and stay with her. This
invitation they gladly accepted, Quincy arranging in
his mind to explain matters to his family by saying
that, as he had now entered politics and would necessarily
have a great many callers to entertain, he thought
it best to make his headquarters with Aunt Ella until
the campaign was over.

Accordingly, the ninth of September saw them located
at Mt Vernon Street. On the very day of their
arrival, proof of the remaining stories and a large
instalment of Blennerhassett reached them, with a
note from Ernst:

“Please rush. Press is waiting.”

Miss Very’s assistance was now absolutely necessary,
but when Quincy asked Leopold for her address, he
was surprised at the reply he received.

“I haven’t seen her,” said Leopold,
“since we came back from Old Orchard together.
In fact, since that time, our relations, for some reason
or other, have undergone a great change. However,
I think I can help you out. I don’t believe
in keeping a good friend like you, Quincy, in suspense,
so I will tell you the truth. I am married.
My wife is fully as competent to assist Mrs. Sawyer
as Miss Very would have been. She is in the library
now at work. I will go and ask her.”

Page 252

He entered the room, closing the door behind him.
Quincy threw himself rather discontentedly into a
chair. He fancied he heard laughing in the next
room, but he knew Alice would be disappointed, and
he himself felt in no mood for laughter.

Leopold opened the library door. “Quincy,
I’ve induced her to undertake the task,”
he said. “Do spare a moment from your work,
Mrs. Ernst; I wish to introduce to you Mr. Quincy
Adams Sawyer, the husband of the author of that coming
literary sensation, Blennerhassett. Mr. Sawyer,”
he continued, “allow me to present you to my
wife, Mrs. Rosa Ernst.” And as he said
this, Leopold and Rosa stood side by side in the doorway.

“When did you do it?” finally ejaculated
Quincy, rushing forward and grasping each by the hand.
“Leopold, I owe you one.” And then
they all laughed together.

By some means, Dr. Culver said by the liberal use
of money, Barker Dalton secured the regular nomination
from Quincy’s party. The latter kept his
word and entered the field as an independent candidate.
A hot contest followed. The papers were full
of the speeches of the opposing candidates, and incidents
connected with their lives. But in none relating
to Quincy was a word said about his marriage, and the
fact was evidently unknown, except to a limited few.
When the polls closed on election day and the vote
was declared, it was found that Sawyer had a plurality
of two hundred and twenty-eight and a clear majority
of twenty-two over both Dalton and Burke, the opposing
candidates. Then the papers were full of compliments
for Mr. Sawyer, who had so successfully fought corruption
and bribery in his own party, and won such a glorious
victory.

But Quincy never knew that the Hon. Nathaniel Adams
Sawyer had used all his influence to secure his son’s
election, and for every dollar expended by Dalton,
the Hon. Nathaniel had covered it with a two or five
if necessary.

The publication of Blennerhassett had been heralded
by advance notices that appeared in the press during
the month of October.

These notices had been adroitly written. Political
prejudices, one notice said, would no doubt be aroused
by statements made in the book, and one newspaper
went so far as to publish a double-leaded editorial
protesting against the revival of party animosities
buried more than two generations ago. The leaven
worked, and when the book was placed in the stores
on the eleventh of November, the demand for it was
unparalleled. Orders came for it from all parts
of the country, particularly from the State of New
York, and the resources of the great publishing house
of Hinckley, Morton, & Co. were taxed to the utmost
to meet the demand.

While Quincy was fighting Dalton in the political
field, another campaign was being planned in the clever
diplomatic brain of Aunt Ella. It related to
the introduction of Alice, the “farmer’s
daughter,” to the proud patrician family of
Sawyer, as Quincy’s wife—­no easy matter
to accomplish satisfactorily, as all agreed.

Page 253

The initial step was taken a couple of weeks after
Thanksgiving, when a daintily-engraved card was issued
from Mt. Vernon Street, which read:

“Your company is respectfully requested on the
evening of the tenth of December at a reception to
be given to Bruce Douglas, the author of Blennerhassett.”

One evening, Quincy ran up the steps of the Mt.
Vernon Street house. He opened the door and started
to run up the stairs to his wife’s room, as
was his custom, when he came into collision with a
young lady, who, upon closer inspection, he found
to be his sister Maude.

“Come in here,” she said. She grasped
him by the arm, and, dragging him into the parlor,
she closed the door behind him.

“Oh, Mr. Man!” she cried, “I’ve
found you out, but horses sha’n’t drag
it out of me. No, Quincy, you’re always
right, and I won’t peach. But ’twas
mean not to tell me.”

Quincy looked at her in voiceless astonishment.
“What do you mean, Maude, and where did you
gather up all that slang?”

“I might ask you,” said Maude, “where
you found your wife. I’ve been talking
to her upstairs. She must have thought that papa
and mamma knew all about it, for she told me who she
was, just as easy. Who is she, Quincy?”

He drew his sister down beside him on a sofa.
“She was Miss Mary Alice Pettengill. She
is now known to a limited few, of which you, sister
Maude, are one, as Mrs. Mary Alice Sawyer; but she
is known to a wide circle of readers as Bruce Douglas,
the author of many popular stories, as also of that
celebrated book entitled Blennerhassett.”

“Is that so?” cried Maude; “why,
papa is wild over that book. He’s been
reading it aloud to us evenings, and he said last night
that that young man—­you hear, Quincy?—­that
young man, had brought the truth to the surface at
last.”

“Now, Maude,” said Quincy, “you
go right home and keep your mouth shut a little while
longer, and when you are sixteen”—­“the
ninth of next January,” broke in Maude—­“I’ll
give you a handsome gold watch, with my picture in
it.”

“I know it, dear,” said Quincy; “I’ll
give you the watch, not as pay, but to show my gratitude.”

Quincy took an early opportunity to explain to his
wife his remissness in not informing his parents of
his marriage, and disclosed to her Aunt Ella’s
plan.

On the tenth, Mrs. Chessman’s spacious parlor
was thronged from nine till eleven o’clock with
bright and shining lights, representing the musical,
artistic, literary, and social culture of Boston.
Among the guests were the Hon. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer,
his wife, and his daughters, Florence and Maude.
The surprise of the visitors at the discovery that
Bruce Douglas was a young woman was followed by one
of great pleasure at finding her beautiful and affable.

The reception and entertainment were acknowledged
on all sides to have been most successful, and a thoroughly
pleased and satisfied company had spoken their farewells
to author and hostess by quarter-past eleven.
So, when Quincy came up Walnut Street and glanced
across at his aunt’s house, a little before
twelve, he found the windows dark and the occupants,
presumably, in their beds.

Page 254

As part of her plan, Quincy had been advised by Aunt
Ella to stay away from the reception, to spend the
night at his father’s house, and to be sure
and take breakfast with them, so as to hear what was
said about the previous evening.

As soon as the morning meal was over, Quincy ran quickly
upstairs, seized his hand-bag, which he always kept
packed, ready for an emergency, and in a very short
space of time, reached Mt. Vernon Street.
He found his wife and aunt in the den. The latter
was reading a manuscript to Alice.

As soon as the greetings were over, and a little time
given to discussing the reception, Quincy asked:
“Who is this Mr. Fernborough that Maude told
me about this morning?”

“He is an English gentleman,” explained
Alice, “who has come to this country to see
if he can find any trace of an only daughter, who ran
away from home with an American more than thirty years
ago, and who, he thinks, came to this country with
her husband. His wife is dead, he is alone in
the world, and he is ready to forgive her and care
for her, if she needs it.”

“He hasn’t hurried himself about it, has
he?” said Quincy; “but why did he come
to you?”

“That’s the strange part of it,”
Alice replied, “He said he thoughtlessly picked
up a magazine at a hotel where he was staying, and
his eye fell upon my story, How He Lost Both Name and
Fortune. He read it, and sought me out, to ask
if it were fiction, or whether it was founded on some
true incident. He was quite disappointed when
I told him it was entirely a work of the imagination.”

“Did he say what hotel?” asked Quincy.

“No,” replied Alice; “but why are
you so interested in a total stranger?”

Then Quincy told the story of the broken envelope—­the
little piece of cloth—­and the name, Linda
Fernborough.

“I must find him at once,” said he, “for
I have an impression that his daughter must have been
Lindy Putnam’s real mother. You gave me
my reward, Alice, before my quest was successful,
but I gave my word to find her for you, and I shall
not consider myself fully worthy of you till that
word is kept.”

“But what did your father and mother say?”
broke in Aunt Ella.

“My father took me to task,” began Quincy,
“for not being present at the reception, but
I told him I had to see Culver on some political business.
Then he remarked that I missed a very pleasant evening.
He complimented Aunt Ella, here, for her skill as
an entertainer, and expressed his surprise that Bruce
Douglas, instead of being a young man, was a young
and very beautiful woman. Yes, Aunt Ella, he actually
called my wife here a very beautiful young woman.”

“That is a capital beginning!” cried Aunt
Ella. “Go on, Quincy.”

“In order to continue the conversation, I ventured
the remark that Bruce Douglas came from an ordinary
country family and one not very well off; for which
aspersion, I humbly ask your pardon, Mrs. Sawyer.
Father replied that he thought that I must have been
misinformed; that Bruce Douglas was worth fifty thousand
dollars in her own right, and he added that she would
become a very wealthy woman if she kept up her literary
activity.”

Page 255

“What did sister Sarah say?” asked Aunt
Ella.

“Well,” said Quincy, “I resolved
to do something desperate, so I asked: ‘Doesn’t
she look countrified?’ again asking your pardon,
Mrs. Sawyer.”

“No,” said mother, “she has the
repose of a Lady Clara Vere de Vere, and is as correct
in her speech as was the Lady Elfrida Hastings.”

“It will come out all right,” cried Aunt
Ella; and Quincy, kissing his aunt and wife, and promising
to write or telegraph every day, caught up his hand-bag
and started forth in search of the Hon. Stuart Fernborough,
M.P.

When Quincy left his aunt’s house he had not
the slightest idea which way would be the best to
turn his footsteps. He commenced his search,
however, at the Revere House, then he tried the American
House, but at neither place was Mr. Fernborough a
guest.

At the Quincy House the clerk was busy with a number
of new arrivals. He had just opened a new hotel
register, and the old one lay upon the counter.
Quincy took it up, and turning over the leaves, glanced
up and down its pages. Suddenly he started back;
then, holding the book closer to his eyes he read
it again. There it was, under the date of September
10, “Mdme. Rose Archimbault and daughter.”
The residence given in the proper column was “New
York.” Quincy kept the book open at the
place where he found this entry until the clerk was
at leisure. He remembered Mdme. Archimbault
and daughter in a general way. He was sure that
they arrived from Europe the day that they came to
the hotel, and he was equally sure that they went
to New York when they left. What made him positive
was that he remembered asking the young lady when she
wrote New York in the register if she had not just
returned from Europe. She said yes, but that
her home residence was in New York.

Quincy thanked the clerk, and started forth again
in search of the elusive Mr. Fernborough. A visit
to Young’s, Parker’s, and the Tremont
furnished no clue, and Quincy was wondering whether
his search, after all, was destined to be fruitless,
when he thought of a small hotel in Central Court,
which led from Washington Street, a little south of
Summer Street.

It was noted for its English roast beef, Yorkshire
mutton chops, and musty ale, and might be just the
sort of place that an English gentleman would put
up at, provided he had been informed of its whereabouts.

On his way Quincy dropped into the Marlborough, but
Mr. Fernborough had not been there, and Quincy imagined
that the little hotel in Central Court was his last
hope.

His persistence was rewarded. Mr. Fernborough
was not only a guest, but he was in his room.
Quincy sent up his card, and in a very short time
was shown into the presence of a courtly gentleman,
between sixty and seventy years of age. His face
was smooth shaven, and had a firm but not hard expression.
His eyes, however, showed that he was weighed down
by some sorrow, which the unyielding expression of
his face indicated that he would bear in silence rather
than seek sympathy from others.

Page 256

Quincy’s story was soon told. The old gentleman
listened with breathless interest, and when at the
close Quincy said, “What do you think?”
Mr. Fernborough cried, “It must be she, my daughter’s
child. There are no other Fernboroughs in England,
and Linda has been a family name for generations.
Heaven bless you, young man, for your kindly interest,
and take me to my grandchild at once. She is
the only tie that binds me to earth. All the
others are dead and gone.”

The old gentleman broke down completely, and for several
minutes was unable to speak.

Quincy waited until his emotion had somewhat subsided.
Then he said, “I am at your service, sir; we
will do our best to find her. I have a feeling
that she is in New York, but not a single fact to prove
it. We can take the one o’clock train,
if you desire.”

The old gentleman began at once to prepare for the
journey. Quincy told him he would meet him at
the hotel office, and from there he sent a note to
Aunt Ella informing her of his intended departure.

Arriving in New York they were driven at once to the
Fifth Avenue Hotel. Quincy prevailed upon Sir
Stuart to retire at once, telling him that he would
prepare an advertisement and have it in the next morning’s
issue of the “New York Herald.”

Quincy wrote out two advertisements and sent them
by special messenger to the newspaper office.
The first one read: “Linda: important
paper not destroyed, as suspected. Communicate
at once with Eastborough, ‘Herald’ office.”
The second was worded as follows: “Celeste
A——­t: an American friend has
a message for you from me. Send your address at
once to Eastborough, ‘Herald’ office.
Algernon H.”

Then began the days of weary waiting; the careful
examination of the “Herald” each morning,
to be sure that the advertisements were in, for both
had been paid for a week in advance. The request
for mail made every morning at the “Herald”
office received a stereotyped “no” for
answer; then he vowed that he would advertise no more,
but would enlist other aids in the search.

On the morning of the eighth day Quincy stood upon
the steps of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He was undecided
which way to go. It is in such cases of absolute
uncertainty that unseen powers should give their aid,
if they ever do, for then it is most needed. He
did not hear any angels’ voices, but he crossed
over Broadway and started up town on the right-hand
side of that great thoroughfare. As he walked
on he glanced at the shop windows, for they were resplendent
with holiday gifts, for Christmas was only one short
week away.

Just beyond the corner of Broadway and Twenty-ninth
Street his attention was attracted by a wax figure
in a milliner’s window. The face and golden
hair reminded him of his wife, and he thought how pretty
Alice would look in the hat that was upon the head
of the figure. His first inclination was to go
in and buy it, then he thought that it would make
an unhandy package to carry with him, and besides his
taste might not be appreciated.

Page 257

Thinking, however, that he might return and purchase
it, he glanced up at the sign. One look and he
gave a sudden start backward, coming violently in
contact with a gentleman who was passing. Quincy’s
apology was accepted and the gentleman passed on,
giving his right shoulder an occasional pressure to
make sure that it was not dislocated. Then Quincy
took another look at the sign to make sure that he
had not been mistaken. On it he read, in large
golden letters, “Mdme. Archimbault.”

It was but the work of an instant for Quincy to enter
the store and approach the only attendant, who was
behind the counter nearest the door.

“Could I see Mdme. Archimbault?”
he inquired in the politest possible manner.

As she said this she pointed to a partition with windows
of ground glass, which extended across the farther
end of the store, evidently forming a private department
for trying on hats and bonnets. Quincy said nothing,
but taking out his cardcase passed one to the attendant.

The girl walked towards the boudoir, opened the door
and entered. Quincy followed her, and was but
a few feet from the door when it was closed.
He heard a woman’s voice say, “What is
it, Hortense?” And the girl’s reply was
distinctly audible. This is what she said, “A
veezitor, mademoiselle.”

An instant’s silence, followed by a smothered
cry of astonishment, evidently from mademoiselle.
Then ensued a short conversation, carried on in whispers.
Then Hortense emerged from the boudoir, and facing
Quincy said, “Ze mademoiselle weel not zee you.
She has no desire to continue ze acquaintance.”

As she said this she stepped behind the counter, evidently
thinking that Quincy would accept the rebuff and depart.
Instead of doing this he took a step forward, which
brought him between Hortense and the door of the boudoir.
Turning to the girl he said in a low tone, “There
must be some mistake. I have never met Mademoiselle
Archimbault. I will go in and explain the purpose
of my visit.” And before Hortense could
prevent him, Quincy had entered the boudoir and closed
the door behind him.

In the centre of the room stood a beautifully carved
and inlaid table. Before it sat an elegantly-dressed
woman, whose hair, artistically arranged, was of the
darkest shade of brown—­almost black.
Her arms were crossed upon the table, her face was
buried in them, and from her came a succession of
convulsive sobs, that indicated she was in great physical
or mental distress.

Quincy felt that she knew he was there, but he did
not speak.

Finally she said, and there was a tone of deep suffering
in her voice: “Oh! Algernon, why have
you followed me? I can never, never marry you.
If it had been possible I would have met you that evening,
as I promised.”

The thought flashed across Quincy’s mind, “This
is the girl that ran away from Lord Hastings.
But why did she call me Algernon?” Then he spoke
for the first time. “Mademoiselle, there
is some misunderstanding; my name is not Algernon.
I am not Lord Hastings.”

Page 258

As he spoke he looked at the woman seated at the table.
She looked up; there was an instantaneous, mutual
recognition. In her astonishment she cried out,
“Mr. Sawyer!”

As these words fell from her lips, Quincy said to
himself, “Thank God! she’s found at last.”
But the only words that he spoke aloud were, “Lindy
Putnam!”

“Why do I find you here,” asked Quincy,
“and under this name? Why have you not
answered my advertisements in the ‘Herald?’”
And he sank into a chair on the other side of the
little table.

The revulsion of feeling was so great at his double
discovery that he came nearer being unmanned than
ever before in his life.

“How did you come by this card!” asked
Mademoiselle Archimbault in a broken voice. “When
you have explained, I will answer your questions.”

Quincy took the card from her hand and glanced at
it. “What a big blunder I made and yet
what a fortunate one,” cried he, for he now saw
that he had sent in Lord Hastings’s card bearing
the London address. “Lord Hastings himself
gave it to me,” he continued. “He
was a guest at my father’s cottage at Nahant
last summer. He came to America and spent three
months vainly searching for you. He loves you
devotedly, and made me promise that if I ever found
you I would cable at once to the address on that card,
and he said he would come to America on the next steamer.
Of course when I made that promise I did not know that
Lindy Putnam and Celeste Archimbault were one and
the same person.”

“But knowing it as you now do, Mr. Sawyer, you
will not send him any word. Give me your solemn
promise you will not. I cannot marry him.
You know I cannot. There is no Lindy Putnam,
and Celeste Archimbault has no right to the name she
bears.”

“Did you come to New York when you left Eastborough,
as you promised you would?” inquired Quincy.

“No, I did not, Mr. Sawyer,” said she.
“Forgive me, but I could not. I was distracted,
almost heartbroken when I reached Boston the day she
died. She had robbed me of all hope of ever finding
my relatives, and but for my hatred of her I believe
I would have had brain fever. One thing I could
not do, I would not do. I would not remain in
America. I was rich, I would travel and try to
drown my sorrow and my hatred. I did not go to
a hotel, for I did not wish any one to find me.
What good could it do? I looked in the ‘Transcript’
and found a boarding place. There I met Mdme.
Archimbault, a widow, a French-Canadian lady, who had
come to Boston in search of a niece who had left her
home in Canada some five years before. Mdme.
Archimbault had spent all the money she had in her
unavailing search for her relative, and she told me,
with tears in her eyes and expressive French gestures,
that she would have to sell her jewelry to pay her
board, as she had no way of making a living in a foreign
land. Then I told her part of my story. She
was sure her niece was dead, and so I asked her to

Page 259

be my mother, to let me take her name and be known
as her daughter. I told her I was rich and that
I would care for her as long as our compact was kept
and the real truth not known. My visit to Nice
and my meeting with Algernon Hastings, he has no doubt
told you. I did not know he was a lord, but I
suspected it. So much the more reason why he
should not marry a nameless waif, a poor girl with
no father or mother and all hope lost of ever finding
them. I came back to America with Mdme.
Archimbault, covering my tracks by cross journeys
and waits which he could not anticipate. We landed
in Boston.”

“I found your names in the Quincy House register,”
remarked Quincy.

“I don’t think I could escape from you
as easily as I did from him,” she said, the
first faint sign of a smile showing itself upon her
face. “I went to my bankers in Boston and
told them that I had been adopted by a wealthy French
lady named Archimbault. I informed them that we
were going to return to France at once. They
made up my account, and I found I was worth nearly
one hundred and forty thousand dollars. I took
my fortune in New York drafts, explaining that madame
wished to visit relatives in New York, and that we
should sail for France from that port. I did
this so my bankers could not disclose my whereabouts
to any one. We came here, but I could not remain
idle. I always had a natural taste for millinery
work, so I proposed to madame that we should open a
store under her name. We did this late in September,
and have had great success since our opening day.
Now you know all about me, Mr. Sawyer. Give me
your promise that you will not tell Lord Hastings where
I am.”

“Then,” said Quincy, “you do not
know why I am here.”

“To keep your word to Lord Hastings, I presume.
What other reason could you have?”

“Then you have not read the Personal Column
in the ‘New York Herald?’” Quincy
inquired.

“No,” said she. “Why should
I?”

Quincy took a copy of the paper from his pocket, laid
it upon the table and pointed with his finger to the
word “Linda.” She read the advertisement,
then looked up to him with distended eyes, full of
questioning.

“What does the paper say? It could not
have disclosed much or you would not have waited so
long to tell me.”

Then Quincy related the story of the sealed package,
how it had been given to Alice Pettengill long before
Mrs. Putnam died; how Miss Pettengill had sworn to
destroy it, but would not when she learned that it
might possibly contain information relating to her
parents. He told her that Miss Pettengill would
not allow any one to read it but herself; and how
he had promised to search for her until he found her.
Then he related the incident at the lawyer’s
office and the piece of cloth bearing the name, “Linda
Fernborough,” “which,” said Quincy,
“I think must have been your mother’s
maiden name.” He did not tell her of the
old gentleman only five blocks away, ready and willing
to claim her as his granddaughter without further
proof than that little piece of doth.

Page 260

Quincy looked at his watch. “I have just
time,” said he, “to get the one o’clock
train for Boston. I will obtain the papers to-morrow
morning, and be in New York again to-morrow night.
The next morning early I will be at your residence
with the papers, and let us hope that they will contain
such information as will disclose your parentage and
give you a name that you can rightfully bear.”

She wrote her home address on a card and passed it
to him.

He gave her hand a quick, firm pressure and left the
store, not even glancing at Hortense, who gazed at
him with wonderment. He hailed a hack and was
driven to the hotel. He found Sir Stuart and told
him that he had found his supposed granddaughter,
but that he must wait until he returned from Boston
with the papers, that his wife’s feelings must
be respected, and that the document could only be
opened and read by the person who had been known to
her as Lindy Putnam.

Quincy reached Mt. Vernon Street about eight
o’clock that evening. His wife and aunt
listened eagerly to the graphic recital of his search.
He pictured the somewhat sensational episode in the
boudoir in the most expressive language, and Alice
remarked that Quincy was fast gathering the materials
for a most exciting romance; while Aunt Ella declared
that the disclosure of the dual personality of Linda
and Celeste would form a most striking theatrical
tableau.

Aunt Ella informed him that she had been requested
by Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer to extend an
invitation to Miss Bruce Douglas to dine with them
on any day that might be convenient for her. “I
was included in the invitation, of course,”
Aunt Ella added. “What day had we better
fix, Quincy?” she inquired.

“Make it Christmas,” replied Quincy.
“Tell them Miss Bruce Douglas has invitations
for every other day but that for a month to come.
What a precious gift I shall present to my father,”
said he, caressing his wife, who laid her fair head
upon his shoulder.

“Do you think he will be pleased?” asked
Alice.

“I don’t know which will please him most,”
replied Quincy, “the fact that such a talented
addition has been made to the family, or the knowledge,
which will surely surprise him, that his son was smart
enough to win such a prize.”

The next morning Quincy arose early and was at Curtis
Carter’s office as soon as it was opened.
Alice had signed an order for the delivery of the
package to him and he presented it to Mr. Carter’s
clerk, to whom he was well known. The ponderous
doors of the big safe were thrown open and the precious
document was produced. When the clerk passed the
package to him and took Alice’s order therefor,
Quincy noticed that a five-dollar bill was pinned
to the envelope; a card was also attached to the bill,
upon which was written: “This money belongs
to Mr. Quincy Sawyer; he dropped it the last time
he was in the office.”

Quincy would not trust the package to his hand-bag,
but placed it in an inside pocket of his coat, which
he tightly buttoned. After leaving the lawyer’s
office he dropped into Grodjinski’s, and purchased
a box of fine cigars. He had the clerk tack one
of his cards on the top of the box. On this he
wrote:

Page 261

“MydearCurtis:—­Keep
the ashes for me; they make good tooth powder.
Quincy.”

The box was then done up and addressed to Curtis Carter,
Esq., the clerk promising to have it delivered at
once.

Quincy had found a letter at his aunt’s from
Mr. Strout, asking him to buy a line of fancy groceries
and confectionery for Christmas trade, and it was
noon before he had attended to the matter to his complete
satisfaction. A hasty lunch and he was once more
on his way to New York, and during the trip his hand
sought the inside pocket of his coat a score of times,
that he might feel assured that the precious document
was still there.

Arriving, Quincy proceeded at once to the Fifth Avenue
Hotel. Sir Stuart was eagerly awaiting his arrival,
and his first question was, “Have you the papers?”

Quincy took the package from his pocket and placed
it on the table before him, remarking as he did so,
“It must not be opened until to-morrow morning,
and then by the young lady herself.”

The old man pushed the package away from him and turned
a stern face toward Quincy. “I yield obedience,”
said he, “to your wife’s command, but
if one man or two stood now between me and my darling’s
child, I would have their lives, if they tried to
keep her from my arms for one instant even.”

After a little reflection he apologized for his vehement
language, and sought his room to think, and hope,
and wait—­but not to sleep.

The next morning, a little before nine o’clock,
a carriage containing two gentlemen stopped before
a modest brick dwelling in West Forty-first Street.
A servant admitted them and showed them into the little
parlor. The room was empty. Quincy pointed
to a sofa at the farther end of the room, and Sir
Stuart took a seat thereon. Quincy stepped into
the entry and greeted Celeste, who was just descending
the stairs.

“Sir Stuart Fernborough is in your parlor,”
said he; “he may be, and I hope to Heaven he
is, your grandfather, but you must control your feelings
until you know the truth. Come and sit by me,
near the window, and read what is written in this
package, so loud that he can hear every word.”
As he said this he placed the package, which might
or might not prove her honorable heritage, in her
hands.

They entered the room and took seats near the window.
Celeste opened the package with trembling fingers.
As she did so that little telltale piece of cloth,
bearing the name “Linda Fernborough,” once
more fell upon the floor. Quincy picked it up,
and held it during the reading of the letter, for
a letter it proved to be.

It had no envelope, but was folded in the old-fashioned
way, so as to leave a blank space on the back of the
last sheet for the address. The address was,
“Mr. Silas Putnam, Hanover, New Hampshire.”

Celeste began to read in a clear voice: “Dear
brother Silas.”

Page 262

“Is there no date?” asked Quincy.

“Oh, yes,” replied Celeste, “March
18, 183—.”

“Thirty years ago,” said Quincy.

Celeste read on:

“DearbrotherSilas:—­You
will, no doubt, be surprised to find I am in this
town when I usually go to Gloucester or Boston, but
the truth is I had a strange adventure during my last
fishing trip on the Polly Sanders, and I thought I
would come into port as close to you as I could.
About ten days ago I had a good catch on the Banks
and sailed for home, bound for Boston. A heavy
fog came up, and we lay to for more than twenty-four
hours. During the night, heard cries, and my mate,
Jim Brown, stuck to it that some ship must have run
ashore; and he was right, for when the fog lifted
we saw the masts of a three-master sticking out of
water, close on shore, and about a mile from where
we lay. We up sail and ran down as close as we
dared to see if there was anybody living on the wreck.
We couldn’t see anybody, but I sent out Jim
Brown with a boat to make a thorough search. In
about an hour he came back, bringing a half-drowned
woman and just the nicest, chubbiest, little black-eyed
girl baby that you ever saw in your life. Jim
said the woman was lashed to a spar, and when he first
saw her, there was a man in the water swimming and
trying to push the spar towards the land, but before
he reached him the man sunk and he didn’t get
another sight of him.”

“Oh, my poor father!” cried Celeste.
The letter dropped from her hands and the tears rushed
into her eyes.

“Shall I finish reading it?” asked Quincy,
picking up the letter.

Celeste nodded, and he read on:

“I gave the woman some brandy and she came to
long enough to tell me who she was. She said
her name was Linda Chester or Chessman, I couldn’t
tell just which. Her husband’s name was
Charles, and he was an artist. He had a brother
in Boston named Robert, and they were on their way
to that city. The wrecked ship was the Canadian
Belle, bound from Liverpool to Boston. I didn’t
tell her her husband was drowned. I gave her some
more brandy and she came to again and said her husband
left a lot of pictures in London with Roper & Son,
on Ludgate Hill. I asked her where she came from
and she said from Heathfield, in Sussex. She said
no more and we couldn’t bring her to again.
She died in about an hour and we buried her at sea.
I noticed that her nightdress had a name stamped on
it different from what she gave me, and so I cut it
out and send it in this letter. Now, I’ve
heard you and Heppy say that if you could find a nice
little girl baby that you would adopt her and bring
her up. I sold out my cargo at Portland, and
so I’ve put in here, and I’ll stay till
you and Heppy have time to drive down here and make
up your minds whether you’ll take this handsome
little baby off my hands. Come right along, quick,
for I must be off to the Banks again soon. From
your brother,

Page 263

ObedPutnam,
Captain of the Polly Sanders.
“Portsmouth Harbor, N.H.

“P.S. The baby was a year old the eighth
of last January. Its name is Linda Fernborough
Chessman.”

The tears had welled up again in the young girl’s
eyes, when Quincy read of the death of her mother
and her burial at sea. His own hand trembled
perceptibly when he realized that the young woman before
him, though not his cousin, was yet connected by indisputable
ties of relationship to his own aunt, Mrs. Ella Chessman.
Following his usual habit of reticence he kept silence,
thinking that it would be inappropriate to detract
in any way from the happy reunion of grandfather and
granddaughter.

Sir Stuart had scarcely moved during the reading of
the letter. He had sat with his right hand covering
his eyes, but yet evidently listening attentively
to each word as it fell from the reader’s lips.
As Quincy folded up the letter and passed it back
to Linda, Sir Stuart arose and came forward to the
front part of the room. Quincy took Linda’s
hand and led her towards Mr. Fernborough. Then
he said, “Sir Stuart, I think this letter proves
conclusively that this young lady’s real name
is Linda Fernborough Chessman. I knew personally
Mr. Silas Putnam, mentioned in the letter, and scores
of others can bear testimony that she has lived nearly
all her life with this Silas Putnam, and has been known
to all as his adopted daughter. There is no doubt
but that the Linda Fernborough who was buried at sea
was her mother. If you are satisfied that Mrs.
Charles Chessman was your daughter, it follows that
this young lady must be your granddaughter.”

“There is no doubt of it in my mind,”
said Sir Stuart, taking both of Linda’s hands
in his. “I live at Fernborough Hall, which
is located in Heathfield, in the county of Sussex.
But, my dear, I did not know until to-day that my
poor daughter had a child, and it will take me just
a little time to get accustomed to the fact.
Old men’s brains do not act as quickly as my
young friend’s here.” As he said this
he looked towards Quincy. “But I am sure
that we both of us owe to him a debt of gratitude
that it will be difficult for us ever to repay.”

The old gentleman drew Linda towards him and folded
her tenderly in his arms. “Come, rest here,
my dear one,” said he; “your doubts and
hopes, your troubles and trials, and your wanderings
are over.” He kissed her on the forehead,
and Linda put her arms about his neck and laid her
head upon his breast.

“You are the only one united to me by near ties
of blood in the world,” Sir Stuart continued,
and he laid his hand on Linda’s head and turned
her face towards him. “You have your mother’s
eyes,” he said. “We will go back
to England, and Fernborough Hall will have a mistress
once more. You are English born, and have a right
to sit in that seat which might have been your mother’s
but for the pride and prejudice which thirty years
ago ruled both your grandmother and myself.”

Page 264

Leaving them to talk over future plans, Quincy went
back to the hotel and wrote two letters. The
first was addressed to Lord Algernon Hastings in London.
The other was a brief note to Aunt Ella, informing
her that a party of four would start for Boston on
the morning train and that she might expect them about
four o’clock in the afternoon.

It lacked but five minutes of that hour when a carriage,
containing the party from New York, stopped before
the Mt. Vernon Street house. It suited Quincy’s
purpose that his companions should first meet his wife,
although the fact that she was his wife was as yet
unknown to them.

The meeting between Alice and Linda was friendly,
but not effusive. They had been ordinary acquaintances
in the old days at Eastborough, but now a mutual satisfaction
and pleasure drew them more closely together.

“I have come,” said Linda, “to thank
you, Miss Pettengill, for your kindness and justice
to me. Few women would have disregarded the solemn
oath that Mrs. Putnam forced you to take, but by doing
so you have given me a lawful name and a life of happiness
for the future. May every blessing that Heaven
can send to you be yours.”

“All the credit should not be given to me,”
replied Alice. “The morning after Mrs.
Putnam’s death I was undecided in my mind which
course to follow, whether to destroy the paper or
to keep it. It was a few words from my Uncle
Isaac that enabled me to decide the matter. He
told me that a promise made to the dead should not
be carried out if it interfered with the just rights
of the living. So I decided to keep the paper,
but how? It was then that Mr. Sawyer came to the
rescue and pointed out to me the line of action, which
I am truly happy to learn has ended so pleasantly.”

“Grandpa and I have both thanked Mr. Sawyer
so much,” said Linda, “that he will not
listen to us any more, but I will write to Uncle Ike,
for I used to call him by that name, and show him
that I am not ungrateful. I have lost all my
politeness, I am so happy,” continued Linda;
“I believe you have met grandpa.”

Sir Stuart came forward, and, in courtly but concise
language, expressed his sincere appreciation of the
kind service that Miss Pettengill had rendered his
granddaughter.

Then Linda introduced Mdme. Archimbault as one
who had been a true friend and almost a mother to
her in the hours of her deepest sorrow and distress.

“Now, my friends,” said Quincy, “I
have a little surprise for you myself. I believe
it my duty to state the situation frankly to you.
My father is a very wealthy man—­a millionaire.
He is proud of his wealth and still more proud of
the honored names of Quincy and Adams, which he conferred
upon me. Like all such fathers and mothers, my
parents have undoubtedly had bright dreams as to the
future of their only son. One of their dreams
has, no doubt, been my marriage to some young lady
of honored name and great wealth. In such a matter,
however, my own mind must decide. I have acted
without their knowledge, as I resolved to deprive
them of the pleasure of my wife’s acquaintance
until Christmas day.”

Page 265

Stepping up to Alice, Quincy took her hand and led
her forward, facing their guests. “I take
great pleasure, my friends, in introducing to you
my wife, Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer.”

There came an exclamation of pleased surprise from
Linda, followed by congratulations from all, and while
these were being extended, Aunt Ella entered the room.
She advanced to meet Sir Stuart, who had been present
at Alice’s reception. Quincy introduced
Mdme. Archimbault, and then Aunt Ella turned
towards Linda. “This is the young lady,
I believe,” said she, “who has just found
a long-lost relative, or rather, has been found by
him. You must be very happy, my dear, and it makes
me very happy to know that my nephew and niece, who
are so dear to me, have been instrumental in bringing
this pleasure to you. But have you been able
to learn your mother’s name? Quincy did
not mention that in his letter.”

“Yes,” said Quincy, stepping forward,
“the letter contained that information, but
I thought I would rather tell you about it than write
it. My dear aunt, allow me to introduce to you
Miss Linda Fernborough Chessman.”

“What!” cried Aunt Ella, starting back
in astonishment.

“Listen to me, Aunt Ella;” and taking
her hand in his he drew her towards him. “Your
husband had a brother, Charles Chessman; he was an
artist and lived in England; while there he married;
he wrote your husband some thirty years ago that he
was going to return to America, but Uncle Robert,
you told me, never heard from him again after receiving
the letter.”

“Yes, yes!” assented Aunt Ella; “I
have the letter. But what is the mystery, Quincy?
You know I can bear anything but suspense.”

“There is no mystery, auntie, now; it is all
cleared up. Uncle Robert’s brother Charles
married Linda Fernborough, Sir Stuart’s daughter.
The vessel in which father, mother, and child sailed
for America was wrecked. Father and mother were
lost, but the child was rescued. This is the
child. Aunt Ella, Linda Chessman is your niece,
but unfortunately I am unable to call her cousin.”

Aunt Ella embraced Linda and talked to her as a mother
might talk to her daughter. Her delight at finding
this relative of the husband whom she had loved so
well and mourned so sincerely, showed itself in face,
and voice, and action. Her hospitality knew no
bounds. Linda must stay with her a month at least,
so must Sir Stuart and Mdme. Archimbault.
It was the holiday season, and they must all feast
and be merry over this happy, unexpected return.

It was a joyous party that gathered in the dining-room
at Aunt Ella’s house that evening. She
said that such an occasion could not be fitly celebrated
with plain cold water, so a battle of choke old port
was served to Sir Stuart, and toasts to Mrs. Sawyer
and Miss Chessman were drunk from glasses filled with
foaming champagne.

Then all adjourned to Aunt Ella’s room and Uncle
Robert’s prime cigars were offered to Sir Stuart
and Quincy. But Aunt Ella had too much to say
to think of her cigarette. For an hour conversation
was general; everybody took part in it. The events
of the past year, which were of so great interest
to all present, were gone over, and when conversation
lagged it was because everybody knew everything that
everybody else knew.

Page 266

Quincy spent that night at his father’s house.
The next morning his mother told him that the author
had selected Christmas day on which to be received
by them at dinner, and that she was making unusual
preparations for that event.

“I wish I could invite a few friends to meet
her that day,” said Quincy.

“You may invite as many as you choose, Quincy,
if you will promise to be here yourself. You
have been away from home so much the past year I hardly
anticipate the pleasure of your company on that day.”

“Have no fear, mother,” Quincy said.
“I wish very much to meet the author that father
and you are so greatly pleased with. Of course
Aunt Ella is coming?”

“Certainly,” answered his mother.
“I understand that the author has been stopping
with her since the reception.”

“I shall invite five friends,” said Quincy,
“and you may depend upon me.”

To his mother’s surprise he gave her a slight
embrace, a light kiss upon her cheek, and was gone.

The sun showed its cheerful face on Christmas morning.
The snow that fell a fortnight previous had been washed
away by continued heavy rains. A cold wind, biting,
but healthful, quickened the pulse and brought roses
to the cheeks of holiday pedestrians.

The programme for the meals on Christmas day had been
arranged by Mrs. Sawyer as follows: Breakfast
at nine, dinner at one, and a light supper at six.
It had always been the rule in the Sawyer family to
exchange Christmas gifts at the breakfast hour.
Quincy was present, and his father, mother, and sisters
thanked him for the valuable presents that bore his
card. Father, mother, and sisters, on their part,
had not forgotten Quincy, and the reunited family
had the most enjoyable time that they had experienced
for a year.

As Quincy rose to leave the table, he said to his
mother, “I have another gift for father and
you, but it has not yet arrived. I am going to
see about it this morning.”

“You will be sure to come to dinner, Quincy,”
fell from his mother’s lips.

“I promise you, mother,” he replied.
“I would not miss it for anything.”

A little after noontime, the Chessman carriage arrived
at the Beacon Street mansion of the Hon. Nathaniel
Adams Sawyer, and a moment later Mrs. Ella Chessman
and the young author, Bruce Douglas, were ushered
into the spacious and elegant parlor. They were
received by Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer and their daughter
Florence.

Twenty minutes later a carriage arrived before the
same mansion. Its occupants were Sir Stuart Fernborough,
his granddaughter, and Mdme. Archimbault.
A few minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Leopold Ernst appeared,
having walked the short distance from their rooms on
Chestnut Street. The new arrivals were presented
to Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer by Mrs. Chessman, and a pleasant
ante-prandial conversation was soon under way.

Page 267

From behind the curtains of a second-story window
of the mansion, a young miss had watched the arrival
and departure of the carriages. As the second
one drove away she exclaimed, “Oh! what a lark!
Those last folks came in Aunt Ella’s carriage,
too. I bet Quincy and auntie have put up some
sort of a game on pa and ma. I won’t go
down stairs till Quincy comes, for I want to give
my new sister a hug and a squeeze and a kiss, and
I sha’n’t dare to do it till Quincy has
introduced her to pa and ma.”

At that moment the young man, faultlessly attired,
came down stairs from the third story, and Maude sprang
out from her doorway on the second floor and said
in a whisper, “How long have you been home, Quincy?”

“I came in about half-past eleven,” he
replied.

“Oh, you rogue,” cried Maude. “I
have been watching out the window for an hour.
I see it all now, you don’t mean to give pa and
ma a chance to say boo until after dinner. Let
me go down first, Quincy.”

Maude went down stairs and was duly presented to the
assembled guests as the youngest scion of the house
of Sawyer.

At exactly five minutes of one Quincy entered the
parlor through the rear door. Aunt Ella and Alice
were seated side by side between the two front windows.
As Quincy advanced he exchanged the compliments of
the season with the guests. Finally the Hon.
Nathaniel and his son Quincy stood facing Aunt Ella
and Alice.

“Quincy,” said his father, in slow, measured
tones, “it gives me great pleasure to present
you to the, celebrated young author, Bruce Douglas.”

Quincy bent low, and Alice inclined her head in acknowledgment.
He reached forward, clasped her hand in his and took
his place by her side. “Father, mother,
and sisters,” he cried, and there was a proud
tone in his clear, ringing voice, “there is still
another presentation to be made—­that Christmas
gift of which I spoke this morning at breakfast.
You see I hold this lady by the hand, which proves
that we are friends and not strangers. To her
friends in the town of Eastborough, where she was
born, the daughter of an honest farmer, who made a
frugal living and no more, she was known by the name
of Mary Alice Pettengill. To the story and book-reading
public of the United States, she is known as Bruce
Douglas, but to me she is known by the sacred name
of wife. I present to you as a Christmas gift,
a daughter and a sister.”

There was a moment of suspense, and all eyes were
fixed upon the parents so dramatically apprised of
their son’s marriage. The Hon. Nathaniel
cleared his throat, and advancing slowly, took Alice’s
hand in his and said, “It gives me great pleasure
to welcome as a daughter one so highly favored by
nature with intellectual powers and such marked endowments
for a famous literary career. I am confident that
the reputation of our family will gain rather than
lose by such an alliance.”

“He thinks her books are going to sell,”
remarked Leopold to his wife.

Page 268

Mrs. Nathaniel Adams Sawyer took Alice’s hand
in hers and kissed her upon the cheek. “You
will always be welcome, my daughter, at our home.
I know we shall learn to love you in time.”

It was Florence’s turn now. Like her mother,
she took her new sister’s hand and gave her
a society kiss on the cheek. Then she spoke:
“As mother said, I know I shall learn to love
you, sister, in time.”

A slight form dashed through the front parlor door,
and throwing her arms about Alice’s neck, gave
her a hearty kiss upon the lips. “My sweet
sister, Alice, I love you now, and I always shall love
you, and I think my brother Quincy is just the luckiest
man in the world to get such a nice wife.”

Then abashed at her own vehemance, she got behind
Aunt Ella, who said to herself, “Maude has got
some heart.”

Dinner was announced. The Hon. Nathaniel Adams
Sawyer offered his arm to Mrs. Quincy Adams Sawyer,
and they led the holiday procession. Sir Stuart
Fernborough, M.P., escorted Mrs. Sarah Quincy Sawyer;
next came Mr. Leopold Ernst and Miss Linda Fernborough
Chessman, followed by Mr. Quincy Adams Sawyer and
Mrs. Leopold Ernst; behind them walked, arm in arm,
Mrs. Ella Quincy Chessman and Mdme. Rose Archimbault;
while bringing up the rear came the Misses Florence
Estelle and Maude Gertrude Sawyer. Maude had
politely offered her arm to Florence, but the latter
had firmly declined to accept it. In this order
they entered the gorgeous dining-room and took their
places at a table bearing evidences of the greatest
wealth, if not the greatest refinement, to partake
of their Christmas dinner.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Fernborough.

Five years passed away, years of not unmixed happiness
for any of those with whom this story has made us
acquainted. Quincy and Alice had undergone a
severe trial in the loss of two of the three little
ones that had been born to them; the remaining child
was a fair little boy, another Quincy, and upon him
the bereaved parents lavished all the wealth of their
tenderness and affection.

In his political life, however, Quincy had found only
smooth and pleasant sailing, and thanks to his bright
and energetic nature, and not a little, perhaps, to
his father’s name and influence, he had risen
rapidly from place to place and honor to honor.
One of his earliest political moves had been the introduction
of a bill into the House for the separation of Mason’s
Corner and Eastborough into individual communities.

Soon after the incorporation of the former town under
its new name of Fernborough, Abbot Smith, at Quincy’s
suggestion, had started the Fernborough Improvement
Association, and now after these few years, the result
of its labors was plainly and agreeably apparent.
The ruins of Uncle Ike’s chicken coop had been
removed, and grass covered its former site. Shade
trees had been planted along all the principal streets,

Page 269

for the new town had streets instead of roads.
The three-mile road to Eastborough Centre had been
christened Mason Street, and the square before Strout
& Maxwell’s store had been named Mason Square.
Mrs. Hawkins’s boarding house had become a hotel,
and was known as the Hawkins House. The square
before the church was called Howe’s Square,
in honor of the aged minister. The old Montrose
road was now dignified by the appellation of Montrose
Avenue. The upper road to Eastborough Centre
that led by the old Putnam house was named Pettengill
Street, although Ezekiel protested that it was a “mighty
poor name for a street, even if it did answer all
right for a man.” The great square facing
Montrose Avenue, upon which the Town Hall and the Chessman
Free Public Library had been built, was called Putnam
Square. On three sides of it, wide streets had
been laid out, on which many pretty houses had been
erected. These three streets had been named Quincy
Street, Adams Street, and Sawyer Street.

It was the morning of the fifteenth of June, a gala
day in the history of the town. The fifth anniversary
of the laying of the corner stone of the Town Hall
and the library was to be commemorated by a grand banquet
given in the Town Hall, and was to be graced by many
distinguished guests, among them the Hon. Quincy Adams
Sawyer and wife, and Mrs. Ella Chessman. After
the banquet, which was to take place in the evening,
there was to be an open-air concert given, followed
by a grand display of fireworks. During the feast,
the citizens were to be admitted to the galleries,
so that they could see the guests and listen to the
speeches.

About ten o’clock the visiting party started
off to view the sights of the town. Under the
leadership of the town officers they turned their
steps first towards the new library. On entering
this handsome building, they observed hung over the
balcony, facing them, a large oil painting of a beautiful
dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, dressed in satin and
velvet and ermine, and having a coronet upon her head.
Underneath was a tablet bearing an inscription.

“An admirable portrait,” said Quincy to
his wife. “Can you read the tablet, dear?
I fear I shall really have to see Dr. Tillotson about
my eyes.”

Alice smiled at the allusion, and directing her gaze
upon it, read without the slightest hesitation:
“Linda Putnam, once a resident of this town,
now Countess of Sussex, and donor of this library building,
which is named in honor of her father, Charles Chessman,
only brother of Robert Chessman.”

[Illustration: Alicerecovershersight (act IV.)]

During the evening festivities the Town Hall was brilliantly
lighted, and every seat in the galleries and coigns
of vantage were occupied. The guests at the banquet
numbered fully sixty. A Boston caterer, with a
corps of trained waiters, had charge of the dinner.
During its progress the Cottonton Brass Band performed
at intervals. They were stationed in Putnam Square,
and the music was not an oppressive and disturbing
element, as it often is at close range on such occasions.

Page 270

When coffee was served, Toastmaster Obadiah Strout,
Esq., arose, and the eyes of banqueters and sightseers
were turned toward him.

“This is a glorious day in the history of our
town,” the toastmaster began, “The pleasant
duty has fallen to me of proposing the toasts to which
we shall drink, and of introducing our honored guests
one by one. I know that words of advice and encouragement
will come from them. But before I perform the
duties that have been allotted to me, it is my privilege
to make a short address. Instead of doing so,
I shall tell you a little story, and it will be a
different kind of a story from what I have been in
the habit of telling.”

This remark caused an audible titter to arise from
some of the auditors in the galleries, and Abner Stiles,
who was sitting behind Mrs. Hawkins, leaned over and
said to her, “I guess he’s goin’
to tell a true story.”

The toastmaster continued: “More than six
years ago a young man from the city arrived in this
town. It was given out that he came down here
for his health, but he wasn’t so sick but that
he could begin to take an active part in town affairs
as soon as he got here. They say confession is
good for the soul, and I’m goin’ to confess
that I didn’t take to this young man. I
thought he was a city swell, who had come down here
to show off, and in company with several friends,
who looked at his visit down here about the same as
I did, we did all we could for a couple of months
to try and drive him out of town. Now I am comin’
to the point that I want to make. If we had let
him alone the chances are that he wouldn’t have
stayed here more than a month any way. Now, s’posen
he had gone home at the end of the month; in that
case he never would have met the lady who sits by
his side to-night, and who by her marriage has added
new lustre to her native town. If he had not remained,
she never would have written those stories which are
known the world over, and I tell you, fellow-citizens,
that in writing Blennerhassett, An American Countess,
The Majesty of the Law, and The Street Boy, she has
done more to make this town famous than all the men
who were ever born in it.”

The speaker paused and drank a glass of water, while
cheers and applause came from all parts of the gallery.
Abner Stiles apparently forgot his surroundings, and,
thinking probably that it was a political rally, called
out, “Three cheers for Alice Pettengill”!
which were given with a will, much to his delight,
and the surprise of the banqueters.

The toastmaster resumed: “If he had gone
away disgusted with the town and its people, he never
would have found out who Linda Putnam really was,
and she, consequently, would never have been what she
is to-day, a peeress of England and the great benefactress
of this town, a lady who will always have our deepest
affection and most sincere gratitude.”

Again the orator paused, and the audience arose to
its feet. Applause, cheers, and the waving of
handkerchiefs attested that the speaker’s words
had voiced the popular feeling. Once more Abner
Stiles’s voice rose above the din, and three
cheers for “Lindy Putnam, Countess of Sussex,”
were given with such a will that the band outside caught
the enthusiasm and played “God Save the Queen,”
which most of the audience supposed was “America.”

Page 271

“In conclusion,” said the orator, “I
have one more point to make, and that is a purely
personal one. Some writer has said the end justifies
the means, and another writer puts it this way, ’Do
evil that good may come.’ In these two
sayin’s lies all the justification for many sayin’s
and doin’s that can be found; and if I were a
conceited man or one inclined to praise my own actions,
I should say that the good fortune of many of our
distinguished guests this evening, and the handsome
financial backin’ that this town has received,
are due principally to my personal exertions.”

Here the speaker paused again and wiped his forehead,
which was bedewed with perspiration.

“Good Lord!” said Mrs. Hawkins to Olive
Green, who sat next to her, “to hear that man
talk anybuddy would think that nobuddy else in the
town ever did anything.”

“To conclude,” said the speaker, “I
don’t wish, feller citizens, to have you understand
that I am defendin’ my actions. They were
mean in spirit and mean in the way in which they were
done, but the one against whom they were directed
returned good for evil, and heaped coals of fire on
my head. At a time when events made me think he
was my greatest enemy, he became my greatest friend.
It is to his assistance, advice, and influence that
I owe the present honorable position that I hold in
this town, and here to-night, in his presence, and
in the presence of you all, I have made this confession
to show that I am truly repentant for the past.
At the same time, I cannot help rejoicing in the good
fortune that those misdeeds were the means of securin’
for us all.”

As the speaker sat down, overcome with emotion, he
was greeted with applause, which was redoubled when
Mr. Sawyer arose in his seat. But when Quincy
leaned forward and extended his hand to Strout, which
the latter took, the excitement rose to fever heat,
and cheers for Quincy Adams Sawyer and Obadiah Strout
resounded throughout the hall and fell upon the evening
air. This time the band played “The Star
Spangled Banner.”

Again the toastmaster arose and said, “Ladies
and gentlemen, the first toast that I am going to
propose to-night is a double one, because, for obvious
reasons, it must include not only the State, but its
chief representative, who is with us here to-night.
Ladies and gentlemen, let us drink to the Old Bay
State, and may each loyal heart say within itself,
‘God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts!’”
The guests touched their lips to their glasses.
“And now,” continued the toastmaster,
“to his Excellency QuincyAdamsSawyer,
Governor of the Commonwealth, whom I have the honor
of introducing to you.”

The Governor arose amid wild applause and loud acclamations,
while the band played “Hail to the Chief!”

Theend.

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Page 272

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Page 273

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Page 274

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